


A Valuable Friend

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brooding, Canon-Typical Behavior, Depression, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, House Being House, House overcompensates, Jealousy, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Pining, Stalking, Wilson being in chaotic obsessive love with House, Wilson undercompensates, awkward cuddling, canon atypical fuckery, food stealing, how many hot mess doctors can you fit in one bathtub, more plot than porn but the naughty bits are graphic, smut with bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OVER 18 ONLYWilson has been receiving mysterious late night phone calls. He'd rather House kept his nose out of it - but we all know how well that goes.Now complete.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

Wilson liked to think he was used to dealing with bizarre happenings. Choosing to spend most of his time with House gave him a lot of practise, after all. It was only when the calls started, every night between 11pm and 1am without fail, that he found his years of training to be inadequate. 

When Wilson picked up the phone, the caller wouldn't speak; he only knew he was listening to a human being at all from the sound of soft, even breathing. The background was otherwise silent, ruling out a call centre or a bad connection. So he asked them, very politely the first five times, to quit it.

When they persisted, he got a little more inventive. “I don't want whatever you're selling,” he would insist, although there was no indication that this was about smoke alarms or skiing trips.

“Have you seen the time?” he opted for, later, before hanging up.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded eventually. “This is harassment. Leave me alone, or I'll call the police.”

He thought he might have heard the caller trying not to laugh at that one. He'd never been the most convincing at sounding firm.

Over the next couple of weeks, Wilson opted to stop answering. Just like a playground bully – the advice was always “just ignore them, and they'll go away”, right? It had never been particularly effective when he was a kid, but maybe the adult world was different. It was, Wilson soon discovered, as misguided a piece of advice as any from his childhood; the caller persisted, every night. When they only got as far as his answering machine, they'd hang up, but they'd always call back immediately.

Wilson lay in bed with his fingers in his ears, trying to shut out the unremitting howl of his landline. After fifteen, maybe twenty attempts, they'd finally give up; and when Wilson eventually drifted off to sleep, that continuous ringing would persist into his dreams.

**

Wilson told himself it was probably some prank caller. Just some harmless, bored kid; not likely to be a stalker, he thought, as he swung by the hardware store on the way to work to pick up an extra chain for the door. Maybe a slightly deranged weirdo trying to screw with me, he reassured himself, when he checked all the windows and doors were firmly locked before going to bed. Just in case, of course.

He changed his number. He waited up until late the same night, until just after 1:30, just to be safe. When nothing happened, he retreated to bed with a victorious smile.

The next night, the phone rang again, just after midnight. Wilson picked up, his heart thrashing in his chest, thinking it couldn't possibly _be..._ until he heard that breathing.

This time though, Wilson stayed on the line. Just like the caller, he remained silent.

He was unsure of his motives for doing so. Curiosity was his best guess, but he liked to think he was more sensible than that; the only good reason for entertaining this lunatic was to assess for any genuine threat to his safety, after all. It crossed his mind that maybe he really was that lonely, but he violently dismissed that one. He didn't like to get into that discussion with himself at the best of times.

After ten, maybe fifteen, minutes of listening to that breathing, he hung up.

Wilson wasn't sure what compelled him to keep answering, every night, from then on. He even changed his routine. Instead of readying himself for bed at around 11, he would wait, nervous, for the phone's inevitable ring. If he was out, which was increasingly rare these days bar evenings at House's place, he ensured he was home well in time. If House was over at his, he started the process of turfing him out at 10pm and usually managed to get rid of him by 10:45.

At first, Wilson continued not to speak. Infinite patience was one of the most powerful tools in his repetoire, and he hoped he could use it to unnerve the caller; make them crack and reveal themselves. He kept this up for a week, listening to those even, anonymous breaths. He measured the caller's respiratory rate, over and over again, hoping if he waited just a little longer, they might say something; but they never did. It was agonising, and annoying. And soothing.

Wilson started to realise that he didn't mind so much. It was... company. Even if they weren't exchanging words, even if this person was faceless and sexless and entirely unknown to him, he was still sharing his time with another human being. Outside of work, outside of House and hospital-related socials, Wilson didn't really keep any company these days. He was guessing that this person didn't either, unless they had a whole selection of different people they called to breathe at like this. What, he figured, was the harm in it?

One night, Wilson felt brave. “What's your name?” he'd asked.

The caller immediately hung up.

**

Wilson was anxious the next day, wondering if he'd frightened them off. Wondering if he'd gotten too personal with them, despite what a ridiculous notion that was when _he_ was the one having his privacy intruded upon. Work ticked by very slowly; the period of rest when he got home passed at an even more glacial pace. Wilson started to get antsy at around 11:30, when he'd still heard nothing; then, when the phone rang at 11:49, he picked it up on the first ring, startling himself with his haste.

Wilson started to talk, after that. He didn't ask the caller any more questions. Instead, he started to talk about himself. His work. His patients. He talked about Laura, the little girl with advanced leukemia. He spoke of how his professional veneer would crumble when she didn't complain, even when she must have been suffering beyond what Wilson could even imagine, and he'd have to tell her how brave she was. He lay on his couch, speaking as freely and as relaxed as if he were in the company of a longtime friend, as he told the caller all about how often he got the question, “that's not one of the _bad_ cancers, is it?” How guilty he felt when the inevitable caregiver burnout after so many years in medicine brought him _this_ close to snapping, “well, it's cancer. None of them are exactly _good_.”

He talked about his fears. There were the everyday benign ones – did that nurse think he was rude the other day? Then, the bigger ones, the ones that kept him awake at night – was he really good enough to be head of oncology at a distinguished hospital, or was there just no one else available? He talked about his sick brother, about how he hardly spoke to his family at all. He admitted he was single, and how lonely that could be. The caller would stay on the line, never cutting in. Always silent, always receptive. When Wilson was done talking, all he'd have to say was, “goodnight,” and the line would disconnect.

It was nice, to take the floor for once. Wilson was so used to biting his tongue, to tilting his head and nodding and humming his sympathies, as a roster of doctors and nurses filed in and out of his office to vent about all their daily annoyances. He took it on. He carried their trivial frustrations on his shoulders along with the fear and grief of his patients and their families. But no one, Wilson was beginning to realise, ever listened to him.

**

It was, Wilson knew, risky, to talk so openly. Knowing it could be anybody at the other end of the line, he started to keep his patients' names to himself. He didn't identify the hospital he worked at. If he felt he was saying too much, he'd veer onto another topic, and the caller would allow it.

Still, they really could be _anybody_. Maybe even somebody he knew.

In a moment of paranoia in the cafeteria one lunchtime, he'd held a wilted sandwich in between his fingers and asked House, “have you been calling me late at night?”

“Are you a hooker or one of my fellows?” House had responded, brimming with disinterest as he snatched a chip off of Wilson's plate. “If you answered no to both of the above, then you're good.” Then, with his mouth full, he'd asked, “Did you catch a glimpse of Cuddy's bra today?”

Wilson had sighed, before agreeing that her blouse was kind of see-through.

**

That night, as if the coast was clear, he started talking to the caller about House.

“He's a pain in the ass,” he told them, holding the phone between cheek and shoulder as he put together his salad for the next day. “He does exactly what he wants, when he wants to do it. You can try to stop him, but he'll find a way. If I had a dollar for every time he's drugged me to prove a point or get me out of the way so I can't intervene with his nonsense...”

“But we have a lot of fun,” he'd added the next night, with the phone on speaker on his bed as he folded laundry. “Good conversation. I don't mind that I always pay for takeout. Not really. He's kind of got a lot of issues... I probably let him get away with a lot. Actually, I _do_ let him get away with a lot. It's not ideal, but... hey, did I mention the Vicodin thing? He had this infarction a few years ago. An infarction is when...”

“You're probably wondering why we're friends,” he began, a few days later, with his untouched crossword puzzle book open before him. “I guess I don't paint him in the best light. But he does care. He cares about a lot of people, though he doesn't like to show it. In fact, he'll do anything to act like he's the coldest bastard out there... but everyone knows he's not really. Everyone who matters to him, anyway. You can't let on that you know that, though, or he gets mad.”

He drew a breath.

“I... uh... I like his hands. I don't know why.”

He laughed nervously. The caller inhaled, then exhaled.

“He is handsome, in that unkempt kind of way. I do wish he'd brush his hair or iron his shirt every now and then. But he has these eyes. You know... nice eyes. They look kind of out of place on him, actually, because you'd think someone with eyes that nice would be a little bit kinder. But... I like the way he looks at me, sometimes. Affectionate. As if he actually... respects me. Thinks I'm okay. He doesn't look at anyone else like that.”

Wilson doodled idly on the open page, as if trying to add some normality to what was coming out of his mouth. Those were intensely private thoughts. Never meant to see the light of day.

But wasn't everything he'd told this person?

“I've often wondered what it would be like to kiss him.” Wilson was whispering, like a teenage girl confessing a crush on a teacher. “I think he'd kiss really... hard. Possessive. But I think he could be soft, too. If he really wanted to be.”

He hesitated.

“I'd definitely prefer him soft. I'd... feel special. Like I was getting to see something no one else gets to see.”

Wilson had never said such a thing aloud. The caller stayed with him, unobtrusive as ever. The patient confidant.

He swallowed, hard, before hanging up without saying goodnight.

**

Over the next couple of weeks, it got easier. Wilson grew bolder.

He'd start with the usual; he'd talk about his day and the little stresses it brought. He'd talk about the book he was reading, giving a detailed review of its merits and criticising the parts where he felt it was lacking. But he bored himself. He only really wanted to talk about House. The little rush of warmth Wilson would feel whenever he was able to make him laugh. The way their knees would brush sometimes when they were sitting on the couch, and House never even seemed to notice, but Wilson would feel woozy at the contact. He even shared how sometimes when he was feeling particularly lonely and frustrated, the thoughts of House pressed up against him would grow brighter and louder, until he just had to put his hands on himself to shut them up. How he would imagine the fingers rolling his nipples belonged to House; how he'd close his eyes and pretend it was House's hand straying beneath his boxers, fondling his cock with hunger glazing his blue eyes.

“But you probably don't want to know about this, do you?” Wilson had said, as he quickly remembered himself.

Anxiety prickled in his stomach, as he tightly closed his eyes with the sheer embarrassment of it. Well... he'd blown it now. His new companion certainly wouldn't be calling here again. Not now they'd been given an insight into how truly pitiful this... _crush_... really was. A doctor in his forties like Wilson should be married with two children and a ridiculously small dog, living in a nice big house just outside the city. He certainly shouldn't be ambling around, pensive and aimless, with three divorces under his belt while he mooned over his best friend.

Wilson presssed the phone harder to his ear, waiting to hear the click of the call being disconnected. It didn't come. Those breaths continued to echo down the receiver, although Wilson noted that they sounded different. A little thicker, a little unsteady. Disgust, maybe? At the very least, probably surprise. This was the most he'd ever spoken about House, or at least the most personal he'd been. 

“I'm sorry,” Wilson said, after a few minutes of silence had passed. “You can hang up if I'm making you uncomfortable. Or we – _I_ – can talk about something else.”

Just as he was trying to pick a new topic in his mind – debating between something as benign as the spoiled salad cheese they served in the cafeteria or as intense as his resentment of his first wife – his ears pricked up to a new sound floating through the receiver. Something slick, something rough. The breaths were shorter, stilted.

“Are you...” Wilson lowered his voice. “_Masturbating_?”

There was no answer, and he wasn't sure why he expected one.

Wilson listened to the breaths, growing slightly ragged as the speed intensified, as if the caller was trying to confirm his suspicions without speaking. Then, there was a grunt. An undeniably... _masculine_ grunt.

Wilson was startled at the revelation. Not that he was expecting a woman, particularly; it was just never something he'd thought too much about. The caller had listened to him, and listened and _listened_ no matter how much Wilson must have bored them sometimes, and that was all he had needed. He hadn't need to ascribe anything more than that to them... well, _him_.

He hesitated for a moment. Despite his feelings for House, this was the closest thing to sexual contact with another man that he'd ever actually had. It might only have consisted of listening to poorly concealed jacking off down the phone, but it made him nervous. Not though, he noted with interest, repulsed. Of course, Wilson _should_ have been repulsed by a complete stranger doing this so blatantly – a stranger who'd been stalking him for the past month, no less – but Wilson was the first to admit that healthy boundaries were not his strongest suit.

And besides - was he really a stranger, after everything Wilson had told him? He was so, so tired of being alone. So tired of carrying the weight of thoughts and desires and fucking _fantasies_ around all by himself.

“I kind of knew you were a man,” he lied, as he shifted on the couch to ease his pyjama pants down. Yep, this was it. He was losing any pretence of heterosexuality at a rapid speed. But really, given what he was about to do, that was the least of his worries.

Wilson drew a breath as his hand ghosted over his hardening cock. He tried not to allow persistent thoughts of how dangerous (and pathetic) this was to enter his focus as he continued speaking. “Sometimes,” he barely whispered. “Sometimes, when his knee brushes mine like that I can't stand it. Makes me want to move in closer. Start kissing him... unbuttoning his shirt...”

The little voice in his mind, the sensible one that told him this was the worst idea he'd ever had, was easily silenced as he took his hardening length in his hand. God, he did this way too much lately. Too many long nights. Too much frustration.

“I get on the floor, right between his legs.” He rubbed his palm against his shaft, biting his lip at the sensation. “I want to hear him moan for me. Just want to see him lose a little bit of control... just for me. Sometimes, I can feel it. My mouth on his chest... his hands in my hair. Encouraging me to kiss all the way down his body. I want to savour him, how he tastes, but he's impatient. And so am I.”

The caller gave that grunt again. Wilson could hear the same slick, pumping sound down the receiver, matching his own movements, as he rubbed his thumb over the slit of his cock, trailing wet little beads of precum over his head. He was slipping away into his fantasies. Electrified by the thrill of sharing them with someone else.

“I get his pants down,” Wilson continued, lost in the images. “He's hard, so hard for me, and I... I can't believe I've done this to him. I want to show him how good I can make him feel. I...”

Wilson carried on, barely aware of the words spilling out of his mouth. He relayed how he'd tease House's perineum with a finger as he closed his lips around the head of his cock, tasting the beads of his arousal. He described how full his mouth would feel, stretched by House's girth, how he'd tease and hover and suckle until House could only whimper a demand for more. His favourite part came next; when he'd raise his eyes to catch House's, just to see them misted over with desire. Then, smugly, he'd swallow him into his throat, feeling House's fingers tighten in his hair at the wet, primal gagging sound his motion produced. He'd watch House's head tilt back against the couch, his mouth opening, helpless to pleasure. Pleasure Wilson was providing.

Wilson could do that. He was sure of it.

A muffled moan echoed through the receiver, as if the caller was covering his mouth. Wilson arched his hips, thrusting into his hand as it moved. Words soon eluded him altogether, as he stroked his cock to the sound of those quivering breaths, punctuated with the occasional strangled gasp that matched his own. He closed his eyes, imagining the noises were coming from House. He envisioned him flushed and writhing in ecstasy beneath Wilson's hands, his mouth, overcome with all the wonderful things Wilson could make him feel if he were only permitted the chance. He came, so fiercely, to the thought of House spilling his release into his throat, broken and writhing and gasping his name.

It wasn't until he was panting in the afterglow of orgasm that Wilson realised the line had gone dead.

**

“You're yawning.”

Wilson covered his mouth with the back of his hand, as if it would somehow protect him from House's suspicious gaze. “Well observed,” he said. In between yawns, he was busying himself with making patterns in his sandwich with his fork; press, stab, press.

House's eyes briefly darted towards a nurse passing their table – his gaze hovering, Wilson noticed, just at chest level – before focussing his attention back. “Why, though?” he asked. “You get your Effexor upped?”

“It's not a symptom,” Wilson snapped, pulling his drink closer towards himself as an afterthought. He didn't fancy another sneaky dose of speed. “I just had a late night.”

The memory of what he'd done stirred another wave of nausea. God, what kind of absolute sociopath jacks off while a stranger listens, and then has lunch with the subject of his phone sex fantasies like nothing ever happened?

“Late night, huh?” House narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing? You weren't with me.”

“Believe it or not,” Wilson said, peeling the crust off the battered sandwich, “I do sometimes have other plans.”

“Sure.” They both knew he didn't, but House was too preoccupied with his intrigue to roast Wilson for the lie. “So, come on. Spill. You're too responsible and boring to stay up late for no good reason.”

Wilson shook his head, wondering why he said anything. How did he never learn?

“It was nothing juicy, and nothing that directly affects you,” he replied, trying to sound blasé in the face of both of his glaring lies. “Therefore, nothing that would interest you.”

“Snippy today, huh?” House's attempt at an expression of feigned hurt was dampened by his increasing curiosity. “Well, lack of sleep does cause irritability. And besides, you _are_ directly affecting me. I really don't need to see the finer details of your mouth when you yawn like that.”

“Then look away.”

“What else is there to look at? You fucking up that sandwich?” He swung his legs up so he was sprawled across the booth, the soles of his shoes right up on the chair, in that arrogant way Wilson hated. Didn't he realise that other people needed to sit there? “Either eat that thing or give it to me.”

Wilson finally took a bite of the sandwich, just to spite him. The food was tasteless, his throat tight, as shame continued to suffocate him. “Satisfied?” he muttered, after swallowing.

“You know I'll get it out of you eventually.” House's eyes were sparkling, alight with the lure of a puzzle. 

Wilson winced. “It's none of your business. Just eat your lunch – which cost me twice as much as mine did, by the way – and leave me alone.”

House tolerated leaving him alone for all of two seconds. Reaching across the table, those long, agile fingers – the ones Wilson had seen so vividly buried in his hair twelve hours ago – snatched his plate away. He threw his hands up with an unusual lack of gusto. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you being such a cagey bitch?” he responded, balancing the plate on his lap with a smirk that made Wilson seethe. “Come on, tell Uncle Greg what's been keeping you up so late.”

Wilson buried his head in his hands. “You're not gonna drop this, are you?”

“Nope.”

He hesitated, digging the heels of his palms into his cheeks. He supposed he could mention a little of it. Not – maybe – _that_ part. Definitely not _that_ part. Just the listening. The talking about his day. House would probably mock him forever, but maybe that little ounce of caring – the one that he insisted didn't reside within him somewhere – might at least provoke House to talk him out of engaging with this... stranger. Which could only be a good thing.

Alright. Wilson was practised in the art of untruth, or at least, lying by omission. It came with the territory of his past infidelities.

He'd often thought that he'd never be able to cheat on House.

So he feigned a loud sigh, like nothing and nobody on the planet could possibly annoy him more than House did. “Alright. Fine. Remember I asked you if you'd been calling me late at night?”

"You did?”

“It was the day Cuddy had that pink lace bra on.”

“Oh, yeah.” House grinned. “Didn't really take in much of what you were saying that day.”

Wilson was a little stunned. Bras and whatever else aside, it wasn't like House not to find a shred of his delicate private life, no matter how small, and cling to it until the whole damn thing unravelled. The question of whether House was losing interest in him hovered in the back of his mind, and the thought stung so much he had to resist the urge to hide his face.

“Fine,” he continued. “For the benefit of those who weren't paying attention the first time around, I have a stalker. For the last month, maybe more. They call every night and they don't say anything. I know nothing about them. Just one person, as far as I know.”

House was quiet a moment. “Huh. Well, you definitely didn't put it like that before. Pretty sure I'd remember. And?”

Wilson blinked. “_And_? My having a stalker isn't entertaining enough for you?”

“It's plenty entertaining. I just mean...” He made circular motions with his hand, urging him on. “What else? There's more to it. I can see it in those soulful brown eyes.”

Wilson could feel some of the discomfort he was stuffing down escaping into his features. He shrugged, heavily, as he gave a passing thought to whether, obvious mocking aside, House really thought his eyes were soulful. “Okay," he said. "Sometimes...” Only sometimes, sure, “... I talk to them. About my life and stuff.”

“And stuff,” House echoed, looking somewhere between amused and horrified. The latter was an incredibly rare expression on House's face, and it only served to unsettle Wilson further. “Right. You didn't think to do something a little more, uh, traditional? Like change your damn number?”

“Tried that,” he responded quietly. “Got my new one. Kept calling.”

Yep, “horrified” was battling “amused” and at this stage in the fight, “horrified” had “amused” in a chokehold. A little uncertainly, House smiled. “You're screwing with me.”

Wilson shook his head. “Nope.”

That bite of sandwich lingered on his tongue, luring nausea to his throat. And it wasn't just the cafeteria's recent decline in quality. He forced himself to keep looking at House, before he stoked the flames of his suspicion any further by turning away in shame.

“Well.” House lingered over the final syllables for a moment, and Wilson wondered if, after years of friendship, he'd finally left his friend speechless. House seemed to swallow; dart his eyes to the right. Only there was no pretty nurse walking by this time. “Well,” he repeated, after a while. “Don't come crying to me when you're the victim of a gruesome murder. You wanna poke the creepy bear, don't be shocked if the creepy bear cuts off your limbs and sews them to your head.”

Wilson frowned. “Thank you for that delightful image. And at the table, too.”

“You're welcome.” As House grabbed his drink and took a sip, Wilson tried not to focus on the way his lips pursed and tightened around the straw. The back of his neck felt warm at the sight. “So, late night bonding with phone-wielding psychopaths. Do you write love letters to serial killers too?”

“Only once, but I never heard back. Charles Manson gets so much mail that he can't possibly respond to us all.” He stuck his hand out. “Give me my lunch back.”

“Why?” House swatted him away with his cup. “You're not eating it. Loss of appetite indicates many things, but in this case I'm going to suggest anxiety, because you were clearly up all night worrying about something if you're this tired. And given that you've befriended your stalker rather than filed a police report– which is _such_ a Wilson thing to do, by the way - I'm going to guess you're freaking out about something you said to them last night. Something you wouldn't want anyone else to know about.”

Wilson's eyes darted towards the table. He knew the gesture smacked of his discomfort, but regardless of how he reacted, House was unstoppable now. His gaze was intense, smug, knowing he was edging closer to his answer. But Wilson wasn't going to tell him he was right. Not about this. No way. Besides, he was beginning to sense that this wasn't even about _him_ anymore; just House seizing another opportunity to show off his gift for getting to the root of the issue on so little information. Why was such a talent given to the most arrogant, nosy dick in existence? Whose fuck up was that?

“I didn't tell him anything important.” It wasn't until the lie was out of his mouth that Wilson realised he'd poured so much energy into veering House off course that he'd neglected to focus on what he was actually saying.

_Shit._

“Him?” House leapt on it at once. “How do you know he's a he if he doesn't speak, huh?”

Wilson's quickening pulse was escalating to full-blown tachycardia.

House, oblivious, was grinning. “Now, this, is way more interesting than Cuddy's considerable VPL today. For future reference, Wilson, this is how you get my attention.”

“VPL?” Wilson echoed.

“Visible panty line,” House said, slowly.

“I know what it fucking _means_!”

House's eyes widened for half a second, the only indication of his bewilderment. Neither of them seemed to know what to say.

In the silence, Wilson had space to brood; he glanced at House's untouched plate, the fries he'd insisted on growing cold, and wondered why he wasn't eating either. He was aware of something familiar, yet unwelcome, rising within him. Something bitter, frantic, possessive. Something that compelled him to want to say disturbing, hurtful things for the sake of it. He felt a small, manageable prick of it quite often when House would talk about Cuddy's ass, or Cameron's body. But upon hearing House imply that Cuddy's tight skirts could hold House's focus more than he could... well, never had it washed over him quite so fiercely as this.

By the time House opened his mouth to speak again, Wilson was straight in there.

“You know,” he said, for no real reason other than he couldn't stop himself, “sometimes I think you're overcompensating when you talk like that.”

The corner of House's mouth flicked up, amused. “For what?”

“The fact that you have to mention boobs or butts five times an hour.” Wilson's fist was clenching on the table. “The leering at pretty nurses. The way you drop sex into the conversation every chance you get. See my point?”

House shrugged. “Perfectly happy with my dick size, if that's what you're implying by overcompensating.”

God, House had no idea how much he teased him.

“Not what I mean,” Wilson continued, that warmth prickling the back of his neck again. “Just... it's like you're trying to prove a point. Like you're trying to prevent people from thinking you're... well... not into women. You're almost a stereotype, sometimes.”

Wilson couldn't really be sure why he was going down this route in particular to throw House off balance, but it was a genuine thought he'd had more than once. Even if it was, he was brave enough to admit, tinted with wishful thinking.

It was a minute, barely-there movement; only someone as familiar with the intricacies of House's mannerisms as Wilson would even have picked up on it - but his shoulders twitched. “You think I'm not into women?” he asked, with that same even, amused edge to his voice. “That's rich, coming from the guy who knows every song in _A Chorus Line_ off by heart. I think your sexual leanings are much more up for debate than mine.”

“I feel no shame in taking an interest in theatre,” Wilson said, in just as even a tone. “Maybe if you tried showing some interest in something outside of sex and other people's business, you too would benefit."”

Was House deflecting? No, Wilson decided, of course he wasn't. Wishful thinking had become wishful imagination. God, he needed to stop this.

House shrugged again. “With all these screwed up people around me, a solid internet connection and a functioning right hand, why would I need to?”

Wilson almost laughed at that, as his bout of anger-jealousy-frustration began to simmer down as quickly as it had risen. The peace, however, was short lived as the underlying shame-disgust-guilt made itself known again. He winced at the force of it, wondering if it would ever go away.

“So what did you say to the guy?” House asked. “The more you tell me...” he indicated Wilson's plate, still balanced on his lap, “the more of your sandwich I give you.”

“Forget it,” Wilson said, snatching House's equally untouched plate from in front of him. “I'm not playing games with you.”

House nodded at his stolen food. “Clearly you are. Also, the whole stealing lunch thing is my deal.”

“Not today.”

“Tell me what you said,” he insisted.

“Nope.”

“So you did say something important, if you don't want me to know what it was.”

“I didn't!” Wilson half-yelled, earning himself the smug benefit of seeing that startled look in House's eyes again. It was only momentary though, as House's bemusement morphed into something more victorious.

“You're terrible at this lying thing,” he said, breaking off a piece of Wilson's sandwich and throwing it in his direction.

He glared. “Kind of like you with the overcompensating thing, huh?”

“Are you still on this?” House's shoulders gave that twitch again, slightly more pronounced this time. “Fine. If I agree not to _overcompensate_ as much, as you put it, will you at least give me a hint?”

Wilson's eyes widened. Did he just...?

House's mouth had grown smaller, his lips pressed inward, like he'd resolved to stop himself from talking. Wilson blinked three times to be sure - he _definitely_ wasn't imagining that slight haze of pink around House's cheekbones.

Then House's belt started to vibrate. He clicked his tongue at his pager as he turned the screen upwards to look, and Wilson watched him fight with himself over whether he could ignore it.

When he scowled, Wilson deflated with relief. “I gotta go,” he said, snatching half of Wilson's sandwich off of his plate before sliding the remaining half across the table to him. “This isn't over.”

He watched as House grabbed his cane from where it was propped up against the booth. He didn't even give Wilson the satisfaction of looking back as he hauled himself up to navigate his way through the lunchtime crowds.

Wilson closed his eyes to avoid the sight of two mostly full plates, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumbs. Only one word sprang to mind:

_Fuck. _


	2. Chapter 2

_This isn't over._

House's final statement lingered on Wilson's mind throughout the afternoon, as he flipped the autopilot switch he was growing increasingly reliant on lately. He spoke a few carefully chosen words to his sickest patients until he summoned faint, tired smiles. He engaged in half-assed banter with his colleagues, trying to sneak subtle glances around the vicinity as they spoke in case House was hovering nearby. When he later retired to his office, he couldn't focus for the urge to glance up at the balcony door, fearing interruption at some point was inevitable.

He couldn't stay.

He took his laptop down to one of the staff rooms he and House never frequented, ignoring the strange looks he got from passing CNAs as he tried to focus on his notes and erase all traces of that rhythmic breathing from his mind. As it got louder, fiercer, his eyes strayed to the window, roaming over the cars in the parking lot as he wondered if any of the owners could be his stalker.

He soon migrated upstairs, charming a janitor he'd given wedding party advice to once into letting him into a disused, locked office. As he closed the blinds and blew some of the dust off the desk before setting his laptop down, he remembered telling the caller about a dream he'd had where House was sleeping beside him in his bed, and he'd sat watching him, running the backs of his curled fingers across his stubble. He recalled telling them how real it felt; how he'd prayed for the same dream every night ever since.

When half four rolled around and House still hadn't located him, Wilson's disbelief at his luck was dampened by his growing paranoia. Every time he heard a soft thud, a footstep from outside that vaguely imitated a shuffle, he would have to fight the urge to dive under the desk – partly because it was grimy from months of neglect, and partly because hiding would be fruitless and stupid. Finally, ten minutes early, he mumbled something to the nurses about a headache as he slipped out of the hospital, breaking into a run through the parking lot as soon as he was far enough away from the entrance not to arouse suspicion. He dived into his car like he was the lead in an action movie, throwing glances into his rearview mirror for the first half mile of his journey home. Cautious, yes, but he knew that House could be pretty damn fast when he wanted to be. Sure, maybe not _that_ fast, but Wilson could never be too careful when House was on one of his missions.

When Wilson finally stepped into his apartment, he closed the front door and stood in the hallway, keys still in hand. He always felt a prickle of fear whenever he came home these days, as much as he wished he didn't. There was, after all, always a chance that his friendly, patient stalker was a little more ominous than he seemed. He spent a minute or two just listening, trying to pick up any hint of a shuffle, a breath, any sign that he wasn't alone. He searched for that “gut feeling” people always report after surviving a home invasion, the one that has something to do with “things just feeling _off_” and other phrases he'd heard on those tacky crime documentaries with their ham-fisted reconstructions. But, as usual, everything felt normal. As much as everything definitely wasn't.

Despite Wilson's successful attempts to reassure himself that he wasn't about to get his throat slit, his feet didn't seem to want to take him any further than where he stood. He felt his shoulders stoop a little, his perfect posture slacken; as if he was permitted, now alone, to show the weight of all he'd been carrying. His mind played back chunks of the past 24 hours like an old showreel: it started with House picking apart every word that came out of his mouth. It faded into the shame every time their eyes met, like bleach in an open sore. Then came the memories of that despicable thing he'd done the night before, when he'd reduced his best friend to masturbatory fuel and then shared it with his literal _stalker_ to get off to as well. Wilson had felt stupid about his feelings for House before, and embarrassed more times than he could count. But he'd never driven himself to the point of feeling dirty.

Then House's remark. The way he'd looked a little red, after declaring he would stop overcompensating if Wilson stopped playing keep-away with the personal details he had no right to know. House must have been angry, Wilson thought. Probably completely unaware that he was angry too; his capacity for emotional recognition was scarce at best, but it went right down the crapper when he was preoccupied with solving a puzzle. Especially a Wilson puzzle.

As he ruminated, Wilson became angry too. Angry with House for his inability to leave things the fuck alone, and angry with himself for giving into him. Letting it escalate to the point where he'd had to avoid him all fucking afternoon. Why did he always do this? Why did he always let House take whatever he wanted?

As if Wilson didn't know the answer to either of those questions.

His evening passed similarly to his afternoon; he slipped through the motions in a haze. He narrowly avoided burning dinner, and ate it over the space of an hour in front of a nature documentary he would never usually opt to sit in front of. He glanced at his clock, his watch, the digital numbers on his VCR. He became familiar with the intricacies of every hour as he waited for 11pm to come around. Usually, Wilson would be bristling like a kid waiting for Santa, as he spent his evening anticipating the stranger's call. Waiting for the opportunity to lament into an anonymous, willing ear until he was just that little bit emptier. But tonight, it dawned on him that he felt differently. Uneasy, somehow. Vulnerable.

As he showered, Wilson was bothered by a growing suspicion that he wouldn't hear from the caller at all. It was possible that he'd merely been looking for phone sex this whole time and, now he'd got it, he'd be onto the next lonely sap, like a frat boy trying to prove his player status. But what if he did call? Then what? Wilson would have to pick up and talk to him as normal, all while trying to live with himself. With the knowledge that he'd destroyed something beautiful. How could he go back to talking about his patients and his colleagues and all the funny shit House came out with after what he'd done?

Clad in his pyjamas, Wilson couldn't sit down. He paced the length of his living room, hands holding his hips hard enough to bruise, as he waited. At 11:16 exactly according to his VCR, his landline began to ring, and he startled as if he wasn't expecting a thing. He stared at the phone and, for the first time since all this began, he hesitated.

Swallowing his cowardice, he picked up just before the caller got his machine, holding the receiver in a trembling grip against his ear. He heard that breathing, soft and even again. Nothing like the last time he'd heard it. After a minute, he mumbled, “hey.”

Nothing, as ever. There used to be solace in nothing. Tonight, there wasn't.

He brought his other hand up to the receiver too, trying to steady his grasp. “Please tell me who you are.”

Wilson gave him a minute; then another.

He closed his eyes. “I can't speak to you anymore.” His voice quivered, unsteady with the weight of that statement. “I'm sorry. Don't... please don't call here again.”

Despite his words, Wilson hung on. He still held an admittedly vain hope that such a final statement might provoke the caller to stop this stupid game. Reveal himself. The magic would be lost forever, but at least Wilson would have a semblance of closure. It was a word he'd heard thrown around so much on television chat shows, by the families of his patients. A word that had never meant much to him at all until now.

The breathing was steady, even. Unchanged. Then with a soft click, it was gone altogether.

**

Wilson could only recall two other times in his life when he'd felt so empty. The earliest was just after his first divorce, when he'd ambled around that conference with his papers in hand, hitting up the bars as soon as he could free himself from the events and lectures that were mandatory for him to attend. More recently was when House was still with Stacy, and there had been some half-hearted talk of marriage, and Wilson had become so depressed that he'd – somehow – avoided House until the whole thing had blown over. Then again, House wasn't quite so dependent on him back then.

The next day, he decided he'd have to up his game. How long he could keep hiding from House, he didn't know; but he planned to give it his best shot. Just until the shame simmered down a little. Just until he felt as though he could comfortably look him in the eye again.

Wilson made sure he was at the hospital just before 8am, around the same time House would be swearing at his alarm and swatting at the snooze button. He quickly checked on all of his patients. If Dr Pissed Off or Nurse Cuddy Sucks wanted a piece of his well wept-on shoulder, he twisted his lips in sympathy and lied that there was somewhere he had to be. He couldn't be seen with anyone. Couldn't risk anyone letting on his whereabouts to House.

After trying to settle in three different locations before 10am, Wilson eventually shut himself in a room on the third floor where disused and outdated equipment was stored. Seating himself on a chair with the back slightly knocked out, he looked at the mess around him and wondered if Cuddy even knew this place existed. He couldn't imagine her being thrilled about it. Just as he began the motions of setting up camp again – plug in laptop, fiddle with some wires, wonder why this document won't open – his ears caught the sound of the door handle rattling. His lungs tightened. Well, he had been getting away with it for longer than he could have hoped.

Wilson stared with a feigned defiance as the door opened, ready to engage in an exhausting battle for his space. But as a slimmer and younger figure slid into view, all he could do was grit his teeth behind tight lips.

“Hi, Wilson.” Chase shoved his hands into the pockets of his labcoat, closing the door behind him. “Just, uh, needed something out of here.”

“The ventilator from the 70s or the computer that only takes floppy disks?” Wilson folded his arms. “How long have you been following me?”

He shrugged. “Not following you.”

“He sent you to spy on me, didn't he?” How characteristically sensitive of House, to get him stalked when he had an actual _stalker_. He wondered if Chase was being deliberately transparent for kicks. “Do any of you ever do any work?”

“Hey, I made twenty bucks out of this.” Chase was smirking a little. “I'd call that work.”

“So he _paid_ you to spy on me.” Yep, definitely for kicks. Wilson slammed his laptop closed, unable to help himself from glaring at the kid as he placed it on the floor and stood up. “Alright, fine. Listen, there's 20 more bucks in this for you if you can just distract him for me for the rest of the day. Okay? Is that a deal?”

The smirk turned into a full blown smile. “Well, I'll gladly take your money, Wilson. But, given that I don't have a new case, or a pair of tits for that matter, I can't promise I'll be successful.”

Wilson winced. House and his stupid obsession with tits. Definitely, he was overcompensating for _something_.

Chase eyed him with curiosity. “Have you two had a fight?”

Wilson opened his mouth to insist that by their standards, yesterday wasn't even a minor quarrel. Quickly figuring that anything he said to Chase was fair game to be used against him when he inevitably went and blabbed to House, he settled for hissing his annoyance he reached into his lab coat for his wallet.

Chase held out his hand. “Make it forty, and I won't tell him you were here.”

Well, well. Shameless prying, personal questions, and now, extortion. Wilson, fighting the urge to gape a little, remembered a time when Chase would turn red and stutter if you so much as spoke to him.

But sadly, desperation forced him into playing along. He handed over two bills with a deliberate scowl. “No extra shifts going in NICU, huh?”

“This is more fun,” Chase said uncertainly as he took the offering. He reminded Wilson somehow of a desperate kid trying to fit in with the playground bully. “Good luck hiding.”

As Wilson watched him leave, noting how even his walk was cockier these days, he found himself hoping that Chase would wake up and get out of there before House could ruin him anymore.

**

After hastily purchasing a latte from the cafeteria, Wilson ended up in his car.

Time was slipping through his fingers, and he was helpless to it. His laptop was closed and forgotten on the backseat, his coffee left to cool in the cup holder. He sat with his arms folded over the steering wheel as he watched passing figures who were oblivious to his presence. If anyone strayed a little too close to his car, his biceps would wind tight until they carried on without sparing him so much as a glance. Every man was a suspect. Every woman could be an accomplice. Any one of them could be ruminating over the deeply personal things Wilson had so willingly and carelessly said. Any known or unknown individual could have a solid memory of what Wilson sounded like when he touched himself. 

As he brooded, the fear seized its chance to set in. What if the stalker was watching him right now? Was it a real possibility that he'd walk into the foyer one morning to the sound of a recording of him jacking off, or declaring that he'd loved House since the moment he saw him? As he remembered his irresponsible declarations, the guilt split his sheath of paranoia. He had no choice but to let it in, to allow it to gnaw away until it ate him down to a skeleton.

And then, there was House himself. That bastard, trying to get him to admit to all of it.

How Wilson missed him.

When his cellphone began to ring, Wilson startled so hard he almost knocked over his latte. Once the threat of cardiac arrest had passed, he found himself slapping at the steering wheel in frustration. The caller, whoever he was, had completely stripped him of his ability to relax. Worse still, the thought that he was probably starting to be missed – he had been more or less avoiding anything that didn't involve paperwork for almost 24 hours – filled him with dread.

As he held up the phone, he was greeted with the words “No Caller ID.” He felt the breath fly from his lungs like he'd taken a wrecking ball to the chest. He stared at the screen, watching it quiver before him as his hand grew increasingly unsteady. His thumb hovered over the answer button, daring him to decline.

Shit. 

“Hello?” His attempt to sound friendly and professional fell flat on its shaking ass.

“Look out the window.”

Wilson grimaced, turning his head. “You fucking ass.”

“The other window, idiot.”

At the sight of House stooped over and leering at him through the glass on the passengers' side, phone pressed to his ear, Wilson concealed his relief with a tight-lipped glare. As House hung up and grinned, gesturing at the door handle, Wilson reached over to wind down the window. He tossed his phone into the footwell, hoping the thing would shatter.

“Seriously?”

House shrugged. “Didn't think you'd answer if you knew it was me.”

Wilson's heart was beginning to slow. Still, he kept the glare affixed to his face. “When you flip through your Little Book of Pranks, do you always skip the section labelled “Too Far?”

“Yeah, I'm not a fan. Not enough pictures and too many big words.” House tapped on the door with his cane. “Come on, open up. I'm missing General Hospital to be here.”

Wilson made a show of hesitating; then sighed, like he was grandly giving in, before flipping up the lock. “You can only come in if you shut up.”

House made a zipping motion across his lips, opening the door and sliding into the passengers' seat. Wilson didn't miss the little flick of his eyelids as he gripped his bad leg and slowly eased it inside. He'd memorised all of House's pain-related idiosyncracies over the years, and every single one, no matter how small, felt like a kick to his gut. Made him yearn to hold him even more, for all that he'd been through. But House hated anything he viewed as pity – even when what he called “pity” was usually those around him merely expressing “I care for you and I'm concerned about you.” Unfortunately, the concept was so foreign to House that he couldn't see it as anything other than a threat.

It hurt Wilson deeply.

House held his cane between his legs, twirling it in his hands. Wilson stared out into the car park; the threat everyone had seemed to emanate just moments ago felt muted with House beside him, even though that was ridiculous on just about every level he could name. In his periphery, he watched House's eyes dart around. To the dashboard. The footwell. Then to Wilson. Then back to his cane. He was, unbelievably, silent.

Wilson swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. Before he could hold it in, it slipped out: “I'm fucked.”

House seemed to take a moment to process this statement. Then, “I thought the rule was we had to shut up.”

“No, _you _have to shut up. Not me.” He absently gripped the steering wheel.

“You don't seem pissed,” House observed, after a pause. “Which is what I usually assume when you're so hilariously intent on avoiding me. If I was using my emotion wheel, I'd probably go for... sad? Is that right?”

“Well, you tolerated shutting up for about a minute. Better than expected, nowhere near as good as hoped for.” Wilson slumped back in his seat. His body felt so heavy. “I am sad, and I'm pissed too. You paid Chase to spy on me.”

“Hey, you paid him to distract me,” House replied. “He's done well out of us today. Strong business acumen, that one.”

Wilson scowled, as he reflected that he should have paid Chase another twenty bucks to keep that quiet. Strong business acumen indeed. Aloud, he opted for the moral high ground. “Your fellows are meant to be learning medicine from you, House. Not the less prestigious discipline of How to be a Colossal Ass.”

“Fine, so I'm screwing up the kids a little. It's just...” House sniffed, feigning a tearful crack in his voice. “..._so_ hard being a single parent. I gotta work, drive Foreman to his piano lessons _and_ find time for my book club.”

Wilson smiled helplessly. It was so rare these days that his smiles were genuine, but when they were, they were usually, if not always, evoked by House. As the midday sunlight caught the angles of his face, Wilson couldn't help but wonder how that stubble would feel beneath his lips.

The shame erupted again, quickly dousing the image. Reminding him that he didn't deserve it.

“You were right. I was stupid.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Wilson was flooded with regret. Wasn't the whole point of avoiding House, and insisting that he shut up, _not _to discuss his stalker? He guessed his subconscious was busy raging at the whole situation, and Wilson's mouth was the only way it could vent. He didn't like to think about what else might be rattling around in there. His regular conscious state was bad enough sometimes.

House let it hang for a moment. Then, “I never said you were stupid.”

“You strongly implied it,” Wilson replied, surprised at the anger in his tone. “Telling me not to come crying to you if I get murdered, or whatever it was you said.”

He shrugged. “Still didn't use the word 'stupid'. Actually, the word I probably would use is 'masochist'."

Wilson sighed, crossing his hands over his stomach. And so it began. “I sense that my encouragement isn't needed. But please, go on.”

House didn't even pause. “You're addicted to making yourself miserable.” As House spoke, he reached for Wilson's forgotten latte. When he took a sip. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest that it was cold. Or that Wilson's mouth had been on it before, for that matter. “For starters, out of all the branches of medicine you could have chosen, you went with oncology. There is no illness more miserable than cancer. And then all the fear and whining that comes with it. It makes you sad." He nodded to emphasise his point. "And you like it.”

Wilson clicked his tongue. “Yep, that's exactly how I worded my med school application.”

“You like the things that hurt,” House accused, jabbing the paper cup in his direction. “The things that make you feel guilty. That's why you marry women that you know, deep down, you'll never be able to fix. And just after fight number 403, just when you start to _accept_ that, you go out and screw around just so you can feel even worse about yourself.”

Wilson debated arguing, but when he couldn't find the words he simply summoned his most dismissive “I'm-gonna-sit-quietly-and-tolerate-your-batshit-theories” look. It served as the perfect mask for his hurt whenever House said things like this, the things that stabbed him in all the weak spots he kept so well hidden from everybody else. Plus, he almost welcomed it. After what he'd done, he figured he deserved a verbal lashing.

As he registered the thought process, it dawned on him that maybe House actually had a point.

“You know," he said eventually, "when I said “shut up”, this was kinda the sort of thing I was referring to.”

“Thank you for clarifying the terms,” House said, with a disinterested nod, before continuing. “So, it makes perfect sense that your latest drama is as weird and as tragic as 'a strange man started calling me so I made friends with him.' You knew it couldn't possibly end well. And so you went with it, because things not ending well is basically the only type of ending you can get behind. You're only happy when it's complicated.”

Wilson absorbed this quietly, eyeing the smears on his windshield. He feared that if he looked at House, saw the concentration on his face as he easily rattled off such deeply personal critiques, he might actually dissolve into tears. It would be a stupid move, because then House would likely freak out and run away. Unfortunately, House sitting here being an asshole was better than him not sitting here at all.

Then, as House's final statement caught up with him, Wilson frowned. “How'd you know I ended it?”

“Uh, because you're sitting in your car sulking?” He drained the final dregs of the cold latte with a slurping sound that made Wilson cringe. He could be so gross sometimes.

“I am _not_ sulking,” he protested, admittedly a little sulkily. “You know full well I'm in my car because I was trying to avoid you.”

“How'd that work out?” A victorious smile lingered on House's mouth for half a second; then, as if remembering himself, he wiped it off. “Anyway, that kind of leads me onto my next point. We've established that you seek out the things that make you miserable...”

“_You've_ established that,” Wilson corrected.

“... And I'm no different, am I?” As if to emphasise his point, he tossed Wilson's empty cup over his shoulder into the back of the car.

Wilson hissed at the sound of it hitting his laptop, gritting his teeth to suppress the urge to rise to it. “Oh, good,” he said. “I wondered when we'd get onto the topic of how _you _fit into all of this.”

“Well, I must fit into it somehow.” House's eyes were once again drawn to his cane. He tapped it against the floor, in little rhythmic motions that were oddly soothing. “Look around, Wilson. I'm not exactly a pro at winning friends and influencing people. And yet you've stuck around. Must mean something.”

Wilson regarded him, hesitant and curious. “So what you're saying is... I'm only friends with you because you make me miserable?”

“All people boil down to is patterns.” House's voice was heavier somehow, his shoulders slightly more rounded. “So. Like I said. How am I different?"

As Wilson watched him bounce that cane up and down, tap, tap, tap, he reflected that only House could make him feel so many different things at once. A guilty kind of scorn at his naked self-pity. Frustration at his need to pick apart everything that tempted his curiosity for reasons that only made sense to him. And then sadness, that it was necessary for the sake of their friendship to keep House completely oblivious to the fact that sometimes he alone was the only reason Wilson got out of bed in the morning.

He swallowed, the wet sound of his throat seeming to echo through the vehicle.

“Listen. I'm sad, and I'm scared,” he said slowly. Carefully. “You _are_ different, House. So right now, what I need you to do is just sit beside me. And – I can't stress this enough – do it _quietly._”

Wilson's hands clasped more tightly across his stomach, fingers digging into the tender bones within as he waited for House's reaction. He had no right to ask. In fact, it was downright brazen to demand comfort from House after what he'd done. He was unsure if he even had any hope of being granted it. To say that comfort wasn't House's thing would be a bit like saying that clothes weren't a nudist's thing.

The tapping stopped. Then House shrugged. “Okay.”

He leaned back in the passengers' seat, propping his elbow against the armrest, his chin in his hand. His eyes squinted a little in the light coming through the windshield, as he absently gazed out into the parking lot.

Wilson waited. He waited for House to draw a breath, ready to launch into another deconstruction of his behaviours and what they could possibly mean. But House sat beside him, quietly. Just as Wilson had asked.

He found himself staring.

House, with his hyper-attuned lizard brain, startled a little as he realised. He turned his head, glaring a little. “Do I have a zit or something?”

“No.” Wilson broke their gaze, lowering his eyes to his lap. Well. This was new.

“It's gonna be okay.”

“What?”

“I said,” House drawled, as if he was deaf, “it's gonna be okay.”

“I heard you.” Wilson eyed him. House looked uncertain, like a puppy trying to learn a new trick. “It just... sounded weird coming out of you.”

House shifted where he sat. His hand tightened on his cane, then released it altogether. Wilson watched as the hand came towards him, landing on his arm. He stared at House's fingers, awkwardly resting on his blazer; then eyed his face, which bore a look of concentration he usually reserved for his cases.

He was instantly wary. “What are you doing?”

House's eyes closed for half a second, as if Wilson drawing attention to his gesture was something that hurt him. “Nothing.”

“Are you...” He hesitated. “Trying to comfort me?”

“Nope. Just really like this blazer.”

Wilson felt the brush of material against his bicep as House's palm began to move against it, slow, uncertain. It was a chaste gesture, universally reassuring. The sort of thing Wilson did to his patients, his colleagues, so naturally he never thought twice about it. Something House was just imitating, because it was what he thought Wilson wanted.

Wilson decided that whatever he did with this, the last thing he should do was point out how nice he was being.

“You don't have to do that,” he forced himself to say, watching House's hand make little circles. “I'm okay.”

“No,” he replied. “You're not.”

But then the motions stopped. House regarded him with that curious, almost daring look he always had whenever he was about to do something that crossed a line. He shifted again, closer, until his thigh was spilling over the edge of his seat. It was clumsy, awkward, the way he tried to close the gap between them with the gearstick and cupholders and various other car furnishings in the way. Then, before Wilson could register what was happening, House's arm was sliding around his shoulder. The gesture was stiff, nervous; House's lips parted, like he was about to speak. Then they closed again, trapping whatever he might have said.

Well, this was very strange. Wilson wondered if he'd become so stressed over this whole situation that he was hallucinating. Time for a script for Zyprexa and a consult with the psych team, stat. He spoke carefully: “How stoned are you right now, House?”

He was mostly joking – mostly – but there was a hint of defensiveness in House's tone as he responded, “well, I can feel my leg. A lot.”

Wilson bit back the urge to apologise. Their awkward positions left a triangular sort of shape between them; he felt the weight of House's arm across his shoulders, the warmth of his armpit against his bicep. He noted how rigid his body was, how afraid. Afraid that if he gave into this, he'd spend the rest of his life empty and longing, pining for this moment. Afraid that he was somehow manipulating House into – well – _hugging _him, simply by being so blatantly miserable. Afraid that he really must be truly pitiful if he could move such an insensitive person so much that all they could do was comfort him.

But it had been so long, too long, since anyone had put their damn arm around him. Wilson was powerless to it, to that primal need for touch. The longer it went on, the more it lulled him. Shut off that unrelenting commentator in his head. Unfortunately, it also seemed to be demolishing what was left of his right mind in the process.

So gingerly, Wilson leaned in, testing the waters as if this was a trick. He pointed his knees towards House in an attempt to get closer, to press their flanks together. He held his breath, gauging House's reaction. He remained where he was. That arm around his shoulders slackened, and then tightened; not with discomfort his time, but in an attempt to pull him closer.

Wilson angled his body to face House, watching with curiosity as he mimicked the gesture; as his eyes followed Wilson's hand, moving to rest on his shoulder. Wilson heard him swallow. Then, summoning every shred of courage in his body, he rested his forehead on House's clavicle, face hovering just millimetres above his shirt. He waited. Waited for House to spring away from him, swat at him with a look of disbelief on his face. He prepared himself for the expletive-filled tirade that would inevitably follow his bold movement.

Then House released a quiet breath, not a sigh, not quite; just a little exhale. In turn, Wilson inhaled against him, breathing in the slightly musky but unmistakeably familiar scent he'd only ever had a brief taste of before. He felt House's other arm slide around his waist, pulling him in a little closer, until the car's brake was wedged into his thigh. It was annoying, a little painful, but he didn't care. He allowed himself to close his eyes, savouring the feeling of being held. Noting his other arm trapped awkwardly between the seats and their bodies, he gently wriggled it free, seeking more of House; he shifted to allow Wilson to slip it around his back, bringing them closer together still.

They were quiet, and although Wilson wasn't so sure how you quantified these things, this had gone on too long to be a hug between friends. It was... an _embrace_ between friends. House's fingertips lightly grazed Wilson's scapulae, so soft, so gentle. Wilson held in a shudder. With all the consciousness he had left, he fought the urges that were screaming inside of him; the desire to raise his head, grab House's face and kiss him until he couldn't breathe....

“Better?” When House spoke again, his voice was thin and unsure.

Wilson nodded against him.

“Good.” 

As that hand on his back stopped moving, Wilson's heart plummeted down into his shoes. House let him hold on for a few more moments, moments that didn't last long enough, before pointedly withdrawing from the... well... _embrace_.

Wilson could do nothing but sit back in his seat, watching the way House's eyes strayed to his lap; then the door handle, as he took it in a grip that shook a little. He'd managed to fight it so far, but he could feel that gentle burn at his lashline; the hot quiver in his throat. He wanted to grab House all over again, cling to him, beg him not to leave.

“What the hell was that?” he couldn't stop himself from demanding.

Door half open, House stilled; he shook his head. “Nothing."

“You just held me.” Wilson's voice was tinted with wonder, disbelief. “Why?”

“I'm an ass, and you bitch and you whine. I'm _not_ an ass, and you bitch and you whine." He glared at the floor. "Now pull your head out your ass and go do your job.”

Wilson watched him ease his leg out of the car, hoisting himself upright with the help of his cane. He prayed for House to turn back, to just look at him one more time. He didn't. The slam of the door rang in his ears as he watched House hobble back towards the hospital. House, who, impulsive behaviours aside, never did anything meaningful without a solid, well-pondered reason. And a reason that he deemed good enough, too. Not a reason he would consider so flimsy, so stupid, as "I did it because they were upset." Unease prickled within him. Did House... know? Did House feel something too? Was House merely seizing the moment to his advantage, like the perverted opportunist that he was?

Wilson despaired as he realised just how pathetic things were getting. Being in love with his best friend was one thing, but actively looking for signs that his feelings were reciprocated was quite another. He knew that the reality of the situation was much simpler: House was just a strange man who did strange things. Whilst it usually comforted him to be so sure of something, in this case it only made him feel as though someone had hacked off one of his limbs.

With one final grimace, Wilson reached into the backseat for his laptop. If he had any intention of going back inside before, he certainly didn't now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting lonnng, hence why its now three parts instead of two. Part 3 coming soon. Stay safe out there <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes a little more in depth with Wilson's depression so i wanna put a little trigger warning, especially as there's a very brief reference to suicidal thoughts. happy ending tho i promise!

Wilson recalled a period in his life when he prayed for more time. Often he found himself missing the shifts of his residency days, the 72 hour stretches that passed in a dreamlike state of signing charts and comforting worried relatives, amidst the wired nausea of too much coffee. Rare chunks of downtime were allocated to parties, to bars, to friendships that felt solid and eternal in the moment but were over as soon as they all moved on to new rotations, higher positions. There were the hangovers, the casual lays, the young marriages, the bitter divorces; despite the occasional struggles, it remained a time when the future was still an attractive, promising thing. It was chaos, and it was life, and it was exhilarating. 

These days, time was something Wilson had in droves. He allocated generous chunks of it to precarious friendships and perfect strangers, because it felt like the right thing to do. He panicked when busy periods and slim bursts of fun sent the hours hurtling away, yet despaired of the days when the hands on the clock barely seemed to shift. Occasionally, time could be a useful tool, when leaving his bed in the mornings became such a mission that the conviction that there was no point in carrying on overwhelmed him. Depending on how bad things were, he'd give himself three days, maybe a a month, to find meaning again; something to hold on for. A patient that needed him; a book that drew him into its perfectly crafted narrative; a look from House that reminded him he had a friend who was already hanging on by a thread and would completely disintegrate without his support. Thus far, he’d grit his teeth and keep going. Keep giving and giving. 

Wilson was starting to feel as though he had nothing more to give. 

Since getting home, he hadn’t moved from the couch. Hadn’t eaten, hadn’t undressed; even the simple act of removing his tie required too much of him. The daylight took its final rattling breaths through the window, bathing his living room in yellows and greys. In its gentle illumination, Wilson saw before him the evidence of all he had achieved. His furniture was expensive. His apartment could be called ‘very nice indeed’, maybe even ‘fancy’ if an observer was feeling generous. His bookshelf was lined with journals containing his own research, his walls decorated with the framed awards and qualifications he’d run out of space for at work. He was everything he’d ever wanted to be: accomplished. Successful. Respected. 

And yet, never had he been more aware of the fact that he had nobody to share it with.

Wilson never did quite manage to get a handle on time. He thought in patterns of minutes and months. He tried to control it, yet the uncertainty of it won every time. Time could be relied upon for questions, but not for answers. 

If we’d have found the tumour a little earlier, would there be something we could have done? 

Is now all we really have? Is planning for the future a worthless notion, given that you can’t predict what "now" will look like in six minutes, six weeks, six months’ time?

If he’d stuck around at work just a little longer, would House have materialised at some point?

If he’d vocalised how he felt years, months, weeks ago, would he be here now? Would House be nothing more than a fragment, an occasional memory of a man he’d once loved?

Stiff from sitting in the same spot, Wilson swung his legs up onto the couch to lay down. He brought a hand up to cover his face, closing his eyes as an extra precaution to shut out his apartment. So empty, so quiet. He could hardly stand it.

He could still feel the ghost of House’s body, pressed so awkwardly up against him in his car; the stiffness, then the give of his arms around his back. After ditching him in the parking lot, he hadn’t returned. It hurt: House had known exactly where to find him; yet he didn’t come back. 

And Wilson could have just as easily cornered him in his office, demanded an explanation; yet he didn’t dare. It struck him as deeply ironic that House, for once, had done a very nice thing - such a nice thing that he’d effectively scared himself away in the process - yet unwittingly been so cruel. He wasn’t to know that Wilson would be pining for those few, close, tender moments for the rest of his life.

House, would get over it and return to him by tomorrow. Wilson himself would eventually put this whole stalker business, with its fear and phone sex and shame, behind him. They would go back to normal. He would love House, and House would be oblivious, and they would hurt, and they would give each other a hard time for the things they did to try not to hurt so _much_, and this whole weird episode in their lives would be entirely forgotten. Ultimately, nothing would change.

Wilson wrapped an arm around himself, trying to emulate House’s firm, awkward attempt at comfort. There was no other option but to simply give it time.

**

“She just has no idea how hard it is for us down here.” Nurse Cuddy Sucks was in Wilson’s office for the second time that morning, eyes bloodshot and mascara dislodged on her cheekbones. She scowled down at the tissue she was tearing to pieces in her hands, sniffing hard. “We’re down two support staff, and we’ve had three admissions. I just wish she’d come and do my job for one day, you know?”

Wilson nodded, elbows on his desk, hands clasped beneath his chin. “Try not to take it personally,” he said, one of his favourite slithers of advice. “Cuddy can be…” He searched carefully for the word. “... blunt. But you’re doing a great job out there.”

She glanced up then, a watery smile touching her lips. “You think so?”

“Everyone says it,” he lied, returning her smile. “It’ll be okay.”

“Thank you, Dr Wilson.” She dabbed at her eyes with the remainder of the tissue, then wiped at the mascara stains, as if instinctively mapping out where they were. “I know it will. I guess I should probably get back out there.”

“Probably,” he echoed. “But come back any time, okay?”

Wilson cursed himself as the words left his mouth. Why did he keep saying that to people? 

“Thank you,” she said again, standing up. “Oh, and before I forget…” She reached into the breast pocket of her scrubs, fishing out a small, well-folded piece of paper. “Dr House asked me to give you this.”

Wilson took the paper, frowning at it. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, a look of resentment passing her features as she added, “we’ve all learned it’s better not to ask when it comes to Dr House.”

“That’s very wise,” Wilson concurred. “See you later.”

Nurse Cuddy Sucks balled the destroyed tissue up in her hands, nodding at him before heading for the door. As it closed behind her, he tried to remember what her actual name was. Began with an L, he thought. Lindy? Lisa?

Wilson noticed the slight tremor in his fingers as he began unfolding the paper. Not a document, not test results. He frowned again. Was this a game House had failed to inform him of? Or were they just no longer on speaking terms? House could be so pathetic sometimes.

Studying the battered paper, Wilson barely registered the words at first, scrawled across the middle in House’s archetypal doctors’ handwriting. As he read the sentence a second time, then a third, his blood solidified in his veins:

_ I know what you did. _

**

As Wilson jerked awake, that inked phrase danced into his conscious thoughts, vivid as a recent memory. His living room was now dark, the open curtains letting in iridescent licks of light from the street outside. And what the hell was that sound? Not his alarm.

It took a few seconds for it to dawn on him that his landline was ringing. He eyed the red digital numbers of his VCR: 11:01pm. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than two hours. He swallowed, his throat like sand. It could be the hospital, but they did usually ring his cell. 

As he sat upright, he cursed the stiffness in his neck, the little gnawing in his lower back. He was getting far too old to pass out on couches. He swatted blindly around him for the nearby table until he hit the switch for the lamp, his eyes protesting the new light. It couldn’t be the caller. Not after last night. It just... _ couldn’t _.

He let his machine pick up, clasping his hands together. The call disconnected immediately.

Wilson waited, staring at his landline on the cabinet across the room, rooted to his couch. The VCR rolled into 11:03, then 11:04. At 11:05, the phone started to ring again.

Wilson let it wail twice; then, slowly, he got to his feet. He made the short journey across his living room, closing his fingers slowly around the cordless phone. The small rectangular screen read, _ No Caller ID. _

This couldn’t be happening.

He moistened his dry lips with his tongue as he picked up. He didn’t bother to say hello. He had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t need to. Hand on his hip, he stepped back from the cabinet.

The caller breathed in, then out. Calm. Familiar. Comforting.

Wilson chewed his lip.

“Listen,” he said quietly, voice rasping a little from sleep. “I really don’t wanna do this.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“But I think it’s time I called the police.” He closed his eyes. He felt rather like a parent who’d just turned their kid over to the cops for shoplifting.

The next inhale was sharper. A little uneven. “Well, _ finally_. That’s the kind of personal growth I was hoping for.”

The rush of emotions that hit Wilson as the caller finally spoke almost cost him his balance. First, relief; then, embarrassment. Vying for final place were disgust and rage, thickening his voice into a near snarl as he responded in a cry that shook his living room. “_House_?!”

A pause. Then a quiet, “yeah.”

“You’re kidding.” Wilson tightened his fingers around the receiver until the plastic shook against his ear. “This whole _ time_?”

“This whole time,” House confirmed. “Cool, huh?”

There was a brief window of calm, barely half a second in length. For a moment or two, Wilson processed this revelation in silence. Then he exploded.

“You _ asshole_!” As he smashed his flattened hand against the nearby cabinet, the adrenaline of his rage dulled the pain. “How the hell could you do this to me? God, I told you so much… I told you _ everything_!”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m given to understand that friends tell each other stuff.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Kinda hurtful that this whole time you’ve been telling me stuff that you haven’t been telling… well… _ me_.”

He sounded almost defensive, and Wilson let out a grim laugh. “You really have the audacity to still call yourself my _ friend _ after this? You’ve been _ stalking _ me, House! You made me feel so _ stupid _about it all… you acted like you knew nothing about it! You looked horrified!”

“Yeah, well.” A little huff. “I kinda was.”

The following pause was broken only by Wilson’s quick, angry breaths. He began to pace the length of his living room, fighting to keep his body rigid to suppress the urge to let himself loose and smash the whole place up. How _ could _ he?

“You mocked me,” he hissed. “You convinced me I was in danger. House, how the fuck could you do this? Why didn’t you just tell me it was you? You’ve had plenty of opportunities!”

“Two is hardly plenty.” House’s voice was beginning to rise too. “And besides, do you not think if you really had a stalker I’d have done a little more about it than just give you a hard time? _I_ knew you were safe. But _ you _ didn’t. So you were still an idiot for talking to me.”

Wilson stopped pacing, his mouth opening wide. This confirmed it: after all of these years, House had finally gone insane. Not that such a threat was ever too far away.

He made a strangled sort of sound, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “House, I can’t _ believe _ you’re arrogant enough to try to turn this around on me. I’m sure all of… _ this _ … makes perfect sense on your planet, but on mine, it makes you goddamn _ certifiable. _ ” He trailed off, his fist clenching at his side. “So, what? You were just gonna carry on like this forever? When were you gonna tell me you were _ stalking _ me?”

“More importantly, when were you gonna tell me you were _ in love _ with me?” he responded, in a perfect imitation of Wilson’s tone.

Wilson felt like he’d been shot in the throat. His hand flew to his temple as he tried to dampen the rush of humiliation at that statement. 

“House,” he continued. “Just tell me why you did this. Come on. Why?”

House clicked his tongue. “Oh, stop deflecting. You know that only works when I do it.”

“You absolute son of a bitch!” Wilson cried, House’s mocking tones luring the flames of his rage back to full capacity. “You have no right to demand answers from me. I can’t believe all those things I said to you… you… you fucking _ creep_!” 

Memories of all the deeply personal things he’d said hit him in fragments. All the things he’d confided in his stalker. In turn, unwittingly, all the things he’d confided in House. He dug the heel of his palm into his closed eye, pushing until it smarted. 

“And yet you thought you were saying them to a total stranger,” House responded. “And not just saying things, either. You also jacked off in the company of a total stranger. Remember that? Who’s the creep now?”

“Still you,” he snapped. “You were _ jacking off _ too, remember?” 

As the words left his mouth, Wilson felt himself slacken. That night… all the shame… and yet, House was there. It was House, getting off with him to fantasies of… well… _ House. _

“You were jacking off too,” Wilson repeated, the shock of the realisation softening his tone. “How about that, House? What was that all about? You wanted to see if you could get me to do it, didn’t you?” He laughed again. “Oh, this is just perfect.”

A harsh exhale. “You’re not listening.”

Wilson startled. That arrogant ass. “You’re-not-listening” was the kind of thing he was supposed to say. Not House. Was he still asleep? Was this just part of that weird ass dream?

“I so _ am _ listening,” he snapped. “And as usual, all I’m hearing is you acting like a borderline sociopath and me somehow getting mixed up in all of it. Now stop dicking around and tell me why you did this.”

A pause. “I wanted to get to know you better.”

“You’ve known me for ten years! Just fucking tell me!”

“I’m trying, if you’ll just shut up for a moment.”

He could have growled. “Fine. I’m shutting up, House. Now try harder.”

Another deep, slightly unsteady breath. “It started as a prank. But then you started talking.” His voice was softer, slightly sullen, like a grocery store worker being forced to confess to stealing from the tills. “I knew you were miserable. But I guess I never knew you were as miserable as you are.”

Wilson slung his arm around his waist, scowling at the floor. “Thanks, House. That’s very comforting. Do you even _ know _ why you did this?”

“You’re still not listening,” House insisted again, this time with an undeserved air of annoyance. “I love you.”

“You're stillmocking me?” Wilson gritted his teeth. He wondered why he was stupid enough to expect a straight answer. “That’s it. I’m hanging up.”

A hard thud echoed down the receiver, one Wilson recognised well; House slamming his cane into a nearby object in frustration. “I was trying to _ help _ you, for fuck’s sake!”

Startled, Wilson tightened his grip on the phone to stop it slipping out of his hand. His breaths were starting to speed up again, but not with anger this time.

“I still don’t understand, House.”

“I can’t believe people think you’re smart,” he scoffed. “Don’t you get it? I love you, and this whole time, I didn’t realise how bad the depression was. I couldn’t just… I don’t know. _ Leave _ you like that.”

“House.” Wilson’s voice emerged as a husk. The floor was beginning to blur beneath his eyes. “You’re serious. Aren’t you?”

He sighed. “If I say yes, will you stop being so fucking dramatic?”

“You… You love me.” Wilson needed confirmation that he wasn’t hallucinating. “You seriously love me?”

“God.” He could almost hear House rolling his eyes. “If you make me say it one more time, I swear I’ll take it back.”

“You did this because you felt guilty.” Wilson cursed the break in his voice, almost as much as the violent smile spreading across his mouth. “You didn’t realise how bad things were and you wanted to give me someone to talk to. Because nobody talks to - well - you.” 

“And then you started talking about me.” House’s lack of confirmation or denial only served as further proof that Wilson was absolutely right. “And then I didn’t know what to do, except carry on listening.” A pause. “I, uh… I honestly never meant it to go this far. I don’t want you to be upset and scared because of me”

It was, Wilson understood, the closest House could get to saying “I’m sorry I made you fear for your life, buddy.” He drew a breath. “I know.” He meant it.

“You’re crying, aren’t you?” He heard House hiss. “Oh, God.”

Wilson swallowed, blinking hard. It would be fruitless to deny it. “You could have just told me, House.”

“You’ve known me for ten years,” House said drily.

Wilson couldn’t help but snicker a little, as he wiped his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but House got there first.

“I don’t want you to cry because of me,” he said, his voice low and almost contrite through the receiver. “Look, just because I feel like I need to make a dramatic exit, I’m gonna say it one more time: I love you. And I guess I just wanted you to know that before you cut me out of your life and never speak to me again.”

Wilson couldn’t hide a grin. “You know, even when you’re trying to repent you still manage to sound like such a self-pitying ass.”

“What can I say. It’s a way of life.” Another slow exhale. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me.”

In the silence that followed, those breaths emerged again; slightly escalated now with adrenaline, but still so familiar and comforting. So… well... _ House_. How could Wilson not have recognised that they belonged to him? House was right. He really wasn’t as smart as the world gave him credit for.

“If anything was gonna stop me from loving you, it’d be this.” Wilson, still smiling, caught a little sob in his throat. “It _ should _ be this. But I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because - and I can’t fucking believe I’m about to say this - but what you did, is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me. In fact, I think it’s the nicest thing _ anyone’s _ ever done for me.”

He expected House to argue this, to shoot back that of course it wasn’t nice. To point out that only somebody as royally screwed up as Wilson would even come close to considering such a thing, whilst ignoring the fact that only somebody as royally screwed up as himself would perpetrate such weird shit in the interest of helping a friend. 

Instead, there was another pause. Then, “well. That’s interesting.”

“Interesting,” Wilson repeated. “Listen, stay there. I’m coming over. We need to talk.”

“You don’t need to come over,” House said quickly.

“What?” Wilson demanded. “Sure I do! You think we can have a conversation like this then have our nightcaps and go to bed like nothing happened? What is wrong…”

“I’m outside,” House said, with a loud air of interruption.

Wilson faltered. “Outside where?”

“Your apartment building. I’d be a shitty stalker if I didn’t show up at your door at some point, wouldn’t I?”

Wilson grinned helplessly. “And what exactly would you have done if I had agreed that you should never speak to me again?”

House paused. “I don’t really know. Didn’t really think that far ahead.”

“Right.” Wilson sniffed. “I’ll buzz you in.” As if the moment would be snatched from him, he took a breath before declaring in a rush, “I love you.”

An audible smile. “Me too, Wilson.”

For the last time, the line went dead.

**

Wilson decided to make coffee.

There were two good reasons why that was decidedly insane. The first was that it was almost midnight, and coffee at such a time was for students, insomniacs and doctors who were actually at work. The second was that Wilson really could have done with something stronger. He imagined there wasn’t a soul on earth who would have blamed him.

As he programmed the percolator, the awareness that House was sitting on his couch in the next room weighed heavy on him. As he’d waited by the door for him to appear, he’d been ready to throw his arms around his neck and draw him in for a tender kiss, the kind that lingers and sizzles and brings images of fireworks to mind. In reality, he’d opened the door to meet a tired and bewildered looking House, who gave him no more than a friendly nod before marching inside (well, as much as a man with a cane can march). Wilson had watched him head for the living room, his craving for romance suddenly no longer so powerful. It all felt so… normal. Comfortable. That was good though, right? 

Right?

He navigated the hallway with two cups, watching little trails of steam dance up into the light, and entered the living room to find House comfortably perched on the couch, cane on the floor beside him. He had his Vicodin bottle in his hand, and he glanced up at Wilson a little guiltily as he shook two pills out into his palm. He swallowed them dry, gulping a little, as Wilson placed the cups on the coffee table before them. Something stopped him from sitting down too.

“Thought you might have got us something stronger,” House quite rightly commented, nodding towards the coffees after a short pause. 

“Caffeine doesn’t interact with Vicodin,” Wilson pointed out, continuing to ignore his own craving for a shot or six. “I’m doing this for your liver.”

House snorted. “My liver’s fine. What are you, a doctor or something?"

Wilson found himself in no mood for banter. He hovered by the coffee table, then stepped back a little as he realised he was all but looming over House. “Shut up,” he said, simply. “You’re not gonna like this, but we need to talk.”

“Boy,” House muttered. “The honeymoon phase is short with you, huh?”

For a moment, just a flash, a stab, Wilson thought House looked rather vulnerable and afraid. As if House was aware he was giving himself away, he adjusted his posture and turned his head, meeting Wilson’s gaze almost defiantly.

Even when he was being a pain in the ass - which was 99.5% of the time - he was beautiful. 

Wilson swallowed the urge to let him off the talking altogether. He knew that if this had any chance of working then House, rather like a wayward child, would need firm boundaries from the get-go. He also knew that eventually his resolve to enforce them would wane, but he at least felt better for making that promise to himself. 

Without prompting, House began to speak. “I get it. I kinda dropped the ball.”

“You dropped the ball so hard you penetrated the earth’s surface. You’ve really pissed off some important geologists.” Wilson folded his arms, rocking backwards on his heels. He wasn’t mad anymore - not in the slightest, actually - but he felt he had to act so to preserve at least some traces of his dignity. “This is screwed up, House. You do realise that I should be filing a police report right now?”

He shrugged again. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

Wilson clicked his tongue. “You know I wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t even _ want _ me to do that.”

“Still wouldn’t stop you.” He leaned forward, breaking their gaze. Wilson watched his hands clasp between his thighs as he eyed the floor. “At least yell at me some more. You know, get it out of your system. You can even hit me if you want.”

Wilson sighed. “I’m not gonna hit you, House. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Seriously,” he said, as if Wilson had any doubt that he was serious. “I get hit all the time. I probably won’t even feel it.”

Wilson checked his watch. Yep, House had been in his apartment a mere ten minutes and he was already exasperated. “I know you, House,” he said, staring at his bowed head. “You’re gonna punish yourself enough for this without my input.”

“Okay. Fine.” He shrugged again. “If it makes you feel better to believe that.”

“I don’t _ believe _ that. I know.” Wilson’s restless feet were becoming too much to bear. He paced the length of the coffee table, then back again. His hands found his hips, and he clutched at the fabric of his slacks as if to ground himself. “God, this is screwed up,” he repeated.

“At least it isn’t boring,” House muttered.

Wilson couldn’t disagree there. 

“So now what?” House asked, looking up. “For someone who wants to talk, you sure are a man of few unimaginative words right now.”

He sounded almost nervous. Wilson had experienced House unsure, maybe even scared, no matter how much he’d try to conceal it. But never had he seen him nervous.

Nope. This definitely wasn’t boring.

“Hey, I’ve been talking for a month.” Wilson slowed his pace to jab a hand at House. “Now, _ you’re _ gonna talk. And, given that you didn’t manage that so well when left to your own devices earlier, I’m gonna ask you a series of pointed questions instead. And you’re gonna answer them. Capiche?”

“‘Capiche’?” House echoed, the corner of his mouth flicking up in amusement. “Um, okay. But stop pacing. It makes your ass look fat.”

Wilson threw his hands up. “How does that even make any sense?”

“Is that one of the questions?”

Wilson exhaled hard through his nose, but he stopped pacing. “Okay, first question. Why didn’t you just confess yesterday in the cafeteria?”

House’s eyes widened a little, and Wilson couldn’t help but feel a perverse sense of satisfaction at how the question threw him. His lips parted, then twitched. As Wilson realised he was seriously considering how to answer, his satisfaction gave way to fascination. Was this actually going to work? Was House going to… _ talk _?

“Guess I kinda hoped you’d make the first move.” His eyes were on the floor again, roaming the carpet. “Figured you’d crack under all that neurotic guilt and tell me what you did. You know, the whole mastur-…”

Wilson put his hand up to stop him. “Yes, House. I know. I was there.”

“Sure,” House muttered, shifting where he sat. “I thought you’d come clean about it. If you’ll excuse the innuendo.”

“Pretty weak innuendo.” Wilson felt as though he was handling a small, frightened kitten who he’d just convinced to eat from his palm. House was _ talking_. He had to handle this delicately. “And the…” He narrowly stopped himself from saying “cuddle.” “The _ hug _ in the car today?”

House shrugged. Barely audibly, he murmured, “you were sad. And it was my fault.”

He said the final two words with such self-directed disdain that Wilson had to fight himself not to swoop in and declare that he was right about House punishing himself. He quietly filed it away for later. 

Instead, he just nodded. “Right. And what would you do if I _ had _ come clean, as you put it? Would you have fessed up too?”

House’s eyes closed for a moment, then he turned his head away. “I don’t know.”

Wilson paused, trying to take this in. He ran a hand through his hair before continuing, “this is insane. It doesn’t even make _ sense_.” 

He scowled. “Yeah, I’m aware of that.” 

“But you don’t _ do _ things that don’t make sense.”

“You want a trowel to lay that on a little thicker?” he snapped, his voice rising a little. His eyes flicked upwards to meet Wilson, then promptly darted away again, as if merely looking at him left him too exposed. “Actually, it’s a good thing. Just proved a longstanding theory of mine.”

“Which is?” Wilson pressed.

House shrugged. “Love rots your brain.”

Wilson was suddenly glad that House wasn’t looking in his direction, because the grin that spread across his face at this statement would have sent him up and running out of the apartment, cane forgotten on the floor. He quickly wiped it off, letting the silence hang between them for a few moments. Letting him recover from the weight of that statement.

When he felt brave enough, Wilson took a step forward. “Okay, last question. For now. How long have you been in love with me?”

House let out a little scoff. “Haven’t I stroked your ego enough tonight?”

Wilson sighed, raising his hands in defence. “House. I said, last question.”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “Just… a really long time, alright?”

House’s features twitched with whatever emotion he was trying to conceal. He had never looked quite so lost, quite so vulnerable. A mirror, Wilson imagined, of how he’d looked himself in his car that afternoon, when House had been moved enough to hold him. Brave enough.

Wilson wasn’t there yet.

He at least had the courage to move a little closer still, stooping down with his hands braced on his thighs. His back grizzled, still complaining about his uncomfortable position on the couch, but he ignored it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly.

“Why didn’t _ you _ tell _ me_?”

“Nuh-uh. No deflecting.”

“Not deflecting. Curious.” For the first time, House was looking straight at him. There was something almost competitive, antagonistic, in his face, in his slightly curled up lips. It was the most familiar expression Wilson had seen all evening, and he couldn’t help but smile. It was oddly reassuring.

“I was curious first,” he said. “Answer my question. I promise this is the last one this time.”

House glared, but it was half-hearted. “Kinda figured you’d… you know… run as far away from me as possible.”

Wilson felt like he’d been stabbed. “You thought I’d leave you?”

House appeared paralysed for a moment, as if stunned by the significance of what he’d revealed. Then, he gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Never,” Wilson said firmly. 

When House didn’t break their gaze, Wilson inched closer still. Swallowing hard, he drew a breath before reaching out and brushing his fingers against the back of House’s hand. When House didn’t draw away, he experimented with a light brush across his knuckles, studying him closely. He watched his lips twitch, but this time not with discomfort. A smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but House began before he could find the words.

“Also, I thought you were totally straight.” As he spoke, his fingers moved, curling around Wilson’s with a somehow uncharacteristic clumsiness. “With the 45 minute hair care routine and the pink shirts, you act _ way _ too gay to be hiding in the closet. Remember how you had your weird little rant about my overcompensating?” With his spare hand, he jabbed a finger at him. “You _ under _compensate.”

Wilson almost laughed, until his brain quickly decoded the subtext in that statement. “Are you telling me you _ do _ overcompensate?”

Once again, House’s face bore the discomfort of a man who’d said too much. He shifted a little where he sat, eyes darting back to the ground. 

Wilson stepped closer still, finally giving into the demands of his back and lowering himself to the floor. Perching on his knees, he asked, “are you gay, House?”

House seemed to blink for a little too long. Then he gave another faint, thin twitch of a nod.

This time, there was no sadistic victorious rush at his correct assumption. Wilson sighed, taking House’s hand in a firm grip. House didn’t protest, but he didn’t roll his gaze back to Wilson’s either.

Cautiously, Wilson placed his other hand on his cheek. The feel of that stubble against his palm, the little swell of bone beneath his little finger, made his breath catch in his throat. So long, he’d fantasised about such closeness. About being able to touch House so gently, so lovingly. As he swept his fingertips over the little grey hairs of his jaw, he bit his lip, fearing the tears would come again.

“I can’t believe you never told me,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” House muttered, squeezing Wilson’s hand in his grip. “That’s the great revelation we need to focus on tonight.”

Wilson laughed a little. “Look at me.”

House appeared somewhat hesitant, before obeying the request. He smiled faintly as Wilson trailed his hand downwards, cupping his jaw.

“It’s okay, House,” he whispered. “I love you.”

It could have just been the dim light, but he could have sworn that House’s eyes looked a little moist. At the sight, Wilson’s heart started to unravel with the need to comfort, to reassure. It wasn’t like the face-saving corner he’d backed himself into at work, where he ran his daily drop-in for the Frustrated of Princeton Plainsboro purely because it was expected; this was real. Driven by love. The sudden, suffocating need to make up for lost time. 

It made Wilson bold at last. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to House’s forehead. It was soft, almost wary. He heard a quiet sigh, barely audible; hesitant, longing. House shifted forward a little where he sat, and in turn, Wilson edged closer on the floor. Fingers still intertwined, House used his other hand to cup the back of Wilson’s neck, fingertips brushing the fine hairs at the base of his skull. 

Wilson let himself be guided forward, until their mouths met in a tender, nervous kiss. They lingered in place, lips barely moving; just touching. Experimenting. Having never kissed a man, Wilson drank in the feeling of stubble brushing his chin, of the slight roughness of House’s lips. Then, there was the harshness of the angles of his jaw beneath his palm. The hair that was short and coarse when he trailed his fingers up to his head. The chest that was flat and solid when he broke his grasp on House’s hand to instead place it there, feeling the cotton of his t-shirt as he slid it upwards to curl his fingers around his shoulder. The need for closeness, connection, that he had never felt for any other human being.

House was the first to draw away, and Wilson froze, searching his face for any signs that he was freaking out. Any indication that they’d pushed things too far, that lizard-brain was kicking into overdrive again and was ready to lash Wilson with its sharp, pointed tongue. He was relieved when instead House pawed at him like a needy cat, with a murmur of, “get up here.”

Wilson went to hoist himself onto the couch, giving a little grunt of surprise when House took hold of his arm and yanked it to assist. As his ass landed against the couch cushions, House wasted no time in inching close enough to him to slide both arms around his waist. His gaze was intense, blue eyes speaking of long-held thoughts and feelings that his plethora of issues would never let him vocalise; his mouth trying to say them for him as it found Wilson’s again, his kiss harder than the last. Wilson had no semantic arguments with himself about what House’s arms around him meant this time: this was definitely an embrace.

Wilson placed a hand on either side of House’s face, gently holding him as he closed his eyes and followed the lead of House’s lips. They brushed his, soft, consistent; as House opened his mouth slightly, Wilson imitated the gesture, letting himself be pulled closer still as their tongues met. With chests and thighs pressed together, such longed-for physical proximity had Wilson trembling; sighing into House’s mouth as fingers, startlingly gentle, began to caress the outline of his spine. Up, down, up, down. As lulling, as soothing, as those in, out, in, out, breaths down the phone.

When House pulled away, he was slightly flushed. “You’re shaking,” he said bluntly.

Wilson held his gaze. “Yeah,” was all he could think to say.

House continued his soft ministrations along his back, demonstrating a tenderness Wilson never would have deemed him capable of. It lulled his eyes closed again. He was exhausted. He usually _ was _ exhausted, but this was different; not the result of battling through the rigid mundanity of a regular day, or thinking himself into a frenzy. This was a pleasant, dreamy kind of fatigue. The sort of calm and rightness with the world that had been foreign to him for so much longer than he cared to remember.

“I love you,” House murmured against his lips, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

Whether it was House’s own exhaustion stripping him of his inhibitions enough to say those things to Wilson, or the heady rush of their intimacy, he didn’t care. He allowed himself to be drawn in for another kiss; another leisurely, longing caress.

Wilson wasn’t cured. He would still need his meds, and that therapy appointment he kept putting off would still need its bullet bitten at some point. But as House held him and kissed him and those pointless coffees grew cold on the table before them, he dared to believe, for the first time in years, that maybe things could start getting a little better.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part FINALLY. Time for the fluff and the smut :D Thank you for the kudos and the lovely comments, it really brightens my day. You guys are awesome <3

Once the initial shock had subsided, Wilson expected a wave of euphoria. He waited for the urge to shut himself in his bedroom and perform a series of cartwheels, or some other feat that was physically impossible for a man of his age who lost his breath taking the stairs. But it didn’t come, and its absence didn’t leave him wanting - because there was no place for it. There’d been no great rush, Wilson realised, because lying here on his couch with House in his arms felt entirely, if bizarrely, natural. The earth had sensed a defect, a misaligned piece, and shifted to correct it. Everything was as exactly as it should be.

House had fallen asleep. His head rested on Wilson’s shoulder, a floppy arm dangled around his waist. He appeared younger somehow at rest, the lines around his eyes not so prominent, his mouth incapable of insults and cynicism. Wilson laid intermittent kisses on his head, a hand resting on the small of his back. He shifted gently to avoid disturbing him when the weight against his bicep started to interfere with his circulation. House didn’t even twitch.

Over the next few days, weeks, there would be difficult moments. Wilson would try to initiate serious, involved conversations that House would sully with riddles and pointless banter until Wilson threw his hands in the air and gave up. He accepted that his odds of coaxing House into speaking with the raw sincerity he’d displayed that evening on an even semi-regular basis were level with that of a chocolate drop in a campfire. But Wilson would find different ways to connect. He was used to House’s avoidant deflections, his absurd games. Even when he was at his most infuriating, Wilson had always found ways to forgive him in the past. He didn’t see why now had to be any different.

Besides, Wilson had seen House in relationships. With Stacy, he’d been around for House's initial excitability. He’d listened to the sex jokes with a jealous scowl he passed off as irritation. He’d despaired of House when Stacy had come to him for the emotional support House couldn’t provide, unable to help the prickle of resentment he felt at the way she just _expected_ it, like Wilson was some separate part of House with extra functions. Later, Wilson would watch as House failed to resist the urge to do stupid, antagonistic things, as he sabotaged himself at every opportunity he could create. Although it bewildered him, he understood House well enough to figure out that he was punishing himself for being happy. That, or he was testing Stacy; he didn’t dare to believe that someone would care for him enough to call them their own. Stacy couldn’t understand it any more than she could handle it, and Wilson had never held her to fault for that.

It was going to be hard, and some days it was going to flat out suck. But Wilson decided he was ready for it. He’d had ten years of practise, after all.

House grunted, shifting in Wilson’s arms. “Dammit,” he mumbled. “You woke me up.”

“Huh? I haven’t moved.” Wilson smiled down at him. “You dreaming?”

“No. But I can hear you thinking. ‘S loud. Quit it.”

Just as Wilson smiled and moved to trail his lips lazily through House’s hair, House opened his eyes and shifted a little, sitting upright. When his arm moved off of Wilson’s waist, he immediately pined for the loss of it; but something made him let House go.

House yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand with an uncharacteristic politeness. “Late, huh?”

“Yeah. Guess it is.”

In the following silence, House shifted again where he sat. Wilson, sensing his need for space, shuffled aside, pressing his hip into the couch’s armrest. As he roamed his eyes over House’s profile, he remembered how divine his lips had felt moving against his; longed again for the simple joy of holding his jaw as they kissed.

Rather than sliding an arm around him - Wilson’s first instinct, and a hard one to fight - he reached out and grazed his fingertips over the back of House’s hand, just as he’d done earlier in the evening. This time, House merely glanced dumbly into his lap. Wilson couldn’t quite read his face, but it wasn’t welcoming.

“Stay with me tonight.” He had intended to sound breezy, but the invite sounded more like a plea. He instantly knew House had read it that way as his shoulders tensed, as his hunched over back seemed to curve further. Undeterred, Wilson persisted, flattening his palm over House’s knuckles. “We should sleep. It’s been…” A heavy night? An insane night? “... a night.”

House gave a bitter sort of smile. “Yeah.”

When House continued to just watch Wilson’s hand resting on the back of his, as if he’d never seen one before, Wilson felt a pinch of dread. He marvelled with an impressed sort of frustration at how House had felt unguarded and accessible just one hour ago, but now, he could feel House banishing him from his castle, chasing him over the moat and raising the drawbridge to stop him getting back in. He could see it in the way House glanced towards the living room door; the way he angled his knees away from Wilson slightly.

“I’m no good for you.” As House announced this, his eyes grazed the floor. He clasped his hands pointedly in his lap, dislodging Wilson’s attempt to hold them.

Wilson blinked slowly as he drew his hand away, hovering next to House. Right. Here was the freakout. He hadn’t expected it quite so soon. In fact, he'd dared to hope he’d be granted a little more of a grace period. Shit. He could handle this. Hopefully.

“Why would you say that?” he asked. "Seems kinda sudden."

“You’re using the cancer voice.” House scowled. “I hate the cancer voice.”

Wilson thought about retorting, but judged that House was probably angling for a fight to avoid expressing what was actually worrying him. As bluntly (and as un-cancer-voicely) as he could manage, he responded, “Just answer my question. What do you mean you’re no good for me?”

House grabbed his cane from the floor, and Wilson felt a wave of panic rise in his stomach as he waited for House to stand up. It was dulled, but not entirely quashed, when he simply held it between his palms, spinning it in little circles that made the rubber end squeal against the lino. A distraction. So much for the earth shifting.

House glared at the curved handle. Wilson waited.

“You never told me about the really bad days,” he said finally. “You could tell a stranger who called your apartment, but not the guy who’s supposed to be your best friend. And there’s a good reason for that.” He switched from twirling his cane to tapping it against the floor with a muted sort of aggression. “I get it. I suck at this stuff.”

Wilson was silent as he processed this. Then, “It kinda sounds like you’re hurt.”

“Nope.”

You so are, Wilson thought, watching his taut, focused mouth. He opted for more silence, congratulating himself on holding back twice in a row. Doing good so far.

“Problem is,” House continued, “you’re gonna have more bad days. You’re gonna want someone who can comfort you. Someone who’ll be there, no matter what.” He finally turned his head, meeting Wilson’s eyes. “I can’t give you a hug and tell you you’re gonna get better, because I don’t know that. Telling you that would be pointless. And kinda cruel, don’t you think?”

He was looking at Wilson expectantly, as if he was waiting for him to say “hey, you’re right. Get the fuck out of my apartment.” Well, he had anticipated that House would try to sabotage himself. Although he was quickly coming to realise that expecting something wasn’t the same as being prepared for it.

He raised his hand to touch House’s face, then slammed it back into his lap, quickly thinking better of it. “I don’t need you to tell me I’m gonna get better. House, I already know all this stuff. I don’t want you to change. Stop…”

“You don’t want me to change right now, because you’re stoned on oxytocin,” he cut in. “But, trust me. You will want me to. Not now, maybe not even next week, next month. What about next time you have a really bad day, and I keep on sucking at all that head tilting and listening and tissues shit? Then what?”

“House.” Wilson sighed. He rubbed his hand across his weary eyes, trying to reign in the urge to shake him. “In your own, very unique, screwed up way, you’ve proved to me tonight that you really care about me. That’s enough.”

House lowered his eyes to Wilson’s chest. “Of course I care about you,” he mumbled.

“Right.” Wilson didn’t mean to sound so triumphant, and House flinched a little. He softened his tone: “And that’s good. If you love me, it’s okay to care about me, you know. Actually, people kinda expect it.”

“God. You sound like a freaking guidance counsellor.” House’s scowl seemed forced this time.

Wilson paused, before reaching out for House’s cane. He allowed Wilson to slip it out of his fingers and balance it against the couch armrest behind him, looking wary and almost resigned. He brushed House’s shoulder with the heel of his palm, watching his eyes smart with the effort of resisting him. He was crumbling.

“I love you,” Wilson said. “Stop trying to talk me out of it. It won’t work.”

House glanced at the hand on his shoulder, longing, pensive. Wilson could almost hear the little algorithms in his brain sifting through all the reasons why this was a bad idea, trying to locate the most convincing ones to present.

“I don’t need you to take care of me, House,” he continued. “I don’t need you to do anything different. You…” He searched carefully for his words, then sighed. “You keep me going, House. Just as you are.”

The tension in his features seemed to melt as he met Wilson’s eyes again, giving way to a look of fascination. Wilson watched the battle continue behind his eyes, the waning need to resist. “This isn’t going to fix you,” he said, wearily.

“I know. But it might give me a reason to start fixing myself.” Wilson snatched House’s hand out of his lap, lifting it to draw it to his chest. House watched as he stroked his knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

“You deserve better than me,” he said quietly. “Anyone can see that. How do I know that you just don’t realise that because you’re depressed?”

Wilson felt his patience evaporate. “House. Shut up.”

Wilson moved the hand on his shoulder up to his jaw, gripping it firmly. Before House could even think about objecting, Wilson angled him forward and pressed his lips up against his in a gentle, lingering kiss, keeping his grip firm on his hand. House’s mouth remained slack against his for a moment or two, in bloody-minded protest; then, as Wilson released him and moved his hands to his biceps, his grip soft and encouraging, House relented. He released a quiet sigh against Wilson’s mouth, a tentative arm awkwardly finding his waist. Wilson shifted forward; he ran his fingertips over the sleeves of House’s shirt, evoking a soft grunt that made him shiver. He didn’t quite dare to slip his fingers beneath the cotton to feel bare skin.

House was the first to pull away, a slightly dazed expression on his face. “Huh.”

“You don’t need to be scared.” Wilson gave his arms a gentle squeeze. “I promise.”

“I’m not. I _promise._” He imitated Wilson's tone with a stab at contempt that fell flat on its ass.

“House.” Wilson sighed, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. At the gesture, he noted the way House seemed to move closer, the arm around his waist tightening. “It’s me. You’re more transparent than you think you are.”

“And yet,” he said, with a muted air of retort as he reached up to rest a hand on Wilson’s clavicle, “you never figured out I was in love with you.”

He smiled helplessly. “I think that says more about me than it does you.”

House’s eyes flickered down to his chest again, and then back up to his face. His teeth grazed his lower lip, just for a moment; then a faint smile crossed his mouth. “You want a bath?”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Why not?” He appeared entirely serious. “I run the best baths in New Jersey. Besides…” He sniffed, and then made a face of exaggerated disgust. “You could do with one. I’m getting a whiff of rotting onion.”

Wilson concealed the mild panic that statement evoked by narrowing his eyes. “Great, thanks. Is this how you win people over?”

“Nah. Figured I already did that part. Now I can say whatever I want, right?” The arm around Wilson’s waist gave a little squeeze before he pulled away and used the coffee table to hoist himself to his feet. “Bubbles?”

“Um, sure.” Wilson watched him lean across the sofa, grabbing his cane from where Wilson had confiscated it earlier. “You’re really gonna do this, aren’t you?”

“Nah. Just gonna go work on the feng shui in your bathroom.” He grinned. “Wait here.”

As he hobbled out of the room, Wilson lifted his arm, taking a guilty sniff of his armpit. House kind of had a point.

His pulse was finally beginning to slow down. He was sure that the previous exchange would only be the first of many, but he guessed he needed all the practice he could get in managing them. It may have only taken a kiss to shut House up this time, but he knew he probably wouldn’t be so lucky going forward. He was rather astounded that it had worked just now.

As he listened to the sound of running water, thuds and splashes from down the hall, he ran a hand through his hair. He was trying to think. He wanted to think, for once, whilst he was granted this brief reprieve; but his mind was filled with static, white noise. It certainly explained his sudden lapse in judgement. Wilson did not take impulsive baths at 3am, and he especially didn't take them when he had work in a worryingly short amount of time. But right now, such a prospect had never sounded more alluring.

He allowed a few minutes to pass before heading down the hallway himself. He was both unsurprised and exasperated to see that House had transformed his bathroom into a replica of a hurricane site, with every cabinet door open, every drawer ransacked. The floor was littered with dusty bottles of unopened bath gel and old shampoos that he hadn’t liked, ones that he'd kept anyway in the unlikely event that he ran out of the ones he did. House himself was perched on the toilet lid, tearing open the cardboard packaging around a selection of bath bombs Wilson suddenly remembered receiving as a secret santa gift the previous Christmas. He’d figured they hadn’t been intended for him - and he’d grown all the more suspicious when a medical secretary had been equally confused to be presented with the director’s cut of some old cult movie that Wilson had mentioned liking once - but at least now they were proving useful.

“Unicorn Glow or Summer Skies?” House asked, surveying the hard, sparkly balls.

“You’re the expert.” Wilson shrugged, watching the steam rise off the water. “Thought I was getting bubbles?”

“This is a delicate discipline, Wilson.” Tearing open the plastic sheath labelled “Summer Skies,” he tossed it into the bath, creating a splash that sprayed Wilson’s arm. He managed a half-hearted glare in response. “You can’t rush an artist at work.”

Wilson watched the bomb fizz, patterns of blues and pinks unravelling through the rising water. “Do you always make this much mess?”

“Are you always this ungrateful?” he shot back, with a pout. He gestured to a bottle lying on its side, amidst the shampoos he’d scattered around the floor. “Pour some of that in, will you?”

“Why me? You’re the one who insisted on running this bath.”

“And you’re the one who’s gonna benefit from it, so help me out.”

Wilson threw his eyes to the ceiling before reaching down and snatching up the bottle of bath gel. “How much do I put in?”

House shrugged. “I don’t know. Just pour it in until you get bubbles, I guess.”

“I think you might have over exaggerated your talents a little.” Wilson unscrewed the cap, dumping the purple liquid under the stream of running water. “Feels suspiciously like I’m doing all the work here while you sit around and watch.”

“Hi, Greg House. I don’t believe we’ve met.” He could feel House watching him closely. “Hey, not that much. You wanna smell like a whore’s boudoir?”

“Better than smelling like onions.” Wilson set the bottle back down, running his fingers through the warm, fragrant water. It did, he had to admit, feel divine. “Want me to turn off the faucet?”

“Probably an idea at some point, unless you were planning on a swim.” House drummed a hand on his thigh before getting up, reaching for his cane. “Have fun.”

“You gonna tidy my bathroom before you go?”

“Nope.”

As House headed for the door, Wilson eased out of the way to let him pass. “What are you gonna do?”

“Thought I'd check out your freezer,” he responded. “See if you’ve got any of that ice cream I like.”

Wilson was surprised to find none of the usual exasperation he’d feel at such a statement rising within him. As House approached the doorway, he seemed to linger a little. Seemed slower on his feet. Perhaps his thigh was just cramping from sitting on the toilet; or perhaps not.

Well, it wasn’t as though this evening could get any weirder.

Wilson eyed the water, now dyed the shade of a breezy August evening. “You can get in with me, if you want.”

House halted altogether, barely a metre away from him. “Really?”

Wilson swallowed hard, nervous. He nodded.

A little shuffle; then House turned around. “That would involve being naked.”

“I guess it would.”

In the lingering pause, Wilson chanced glancing up. House was eyeing him, his expression unreadable. Then it evaporated, and he shrugged. “Okay.”

Wilson drew a breath, watching as he balanced his cane against the doorframe. When House stepped forward, Wilson in turn moved in to meet him, closing the gap between them. With less confidence than before, he allowed himself to place a hand on either side of House’s waist; House, with the same trepidation, reached up to finger the collar of his shirt. Wilson could see a wary sort of hunger in his eyes, one he was sure matched his own expression. For a moment, they hovered; then, closing his eyes with a soft inhale, House leaned in for a kiss.

It only took a second for Wilson’s awe at feeling House’s stubble graze his chin to subside. He grunted, gently opening his mouth; he let House’s tongue slide between his lips, meeting his with an urgent sort of fervour that had been missing before. He curled his fingers, running the tips of them over the soft material of House’s t-shirt; felt him shudder against him, the little jump of muscle beneath reacting to his touch. He grew bolder. It compelled him to take a handful of the shirt and tug at it gently, seeking permission to remove it. House responded by drawing out of the kiss and raising his arms, letting Wilson pull the shirt from his body. As it hit the floor with a crumpling thud, the sound brought an amazed look to House’s face. As if he couldn’t believe this was happening.

Wilson was right there with him.

He roamed his eyes over House’s now bare chest, unable to hold back a quiet moan as he allowed himself to place his palms flat against his shoulders. He ran them down his torso in a slow caress, not quite daring to brush his nipples. It was different to touching a woman - an obstacle that he’d somehow never considered before tonight. House’s skin wasn’t soft, his body lacking the curves and shapes that Wilson was so familiar with; he was inexperienced all over again. It didn’t mean, he theorised, that he couldn’t make House feel good. He just needed a little practise. For all he knew, House had never been with a man before either.

Damn, he thought. Should have asked that question when he still had the chance.

Wilson decided to experiment; to find out what House liked. Skating his fingertips lightly across House’s shoulders, down to his biceps, he skimmed his lips against his throat. House’s breath hitched, his hand cupping the back of Wilson’s head. Wilson allowed his own longing exhale to escape against House’s skin as his mouth trailed to the side of his neck; he parted his lips, sucking gently on the sensitive flesh just above his clavicle. He smiled when House’s respirations quickened, when his other hand flattened against Wilson’s back, caressing the little curve of his spine. His touch was oddly tender, something Wilson might not have expected. Then again, if this evening had reinforced anything he should really know by now, it was that he could never presume anything about House.

Wilson continued his tender, experimental kisses, trailing his mouth up to the side of House’s face; he nipped gently at his earlobe, satisfied at the little gasp he evoked. He let his hands wander a little more, sliding off his biceps and back to his chest. He flicked out his thumb, pausing his kisses as he finally dared to allow its pad to brush House’s nipple. He marvelled as House moaned quietly, chancing meeting his eyes. His irises were darker, his pupils expanding. The sight made Wilson's pants feel tight.

House gently swatted his hand out of the way so that he could reach for the top button on Wilson’s shirt. His fingers trembled as he popped it open, leaning down to nip at Wilson’s chin. At the little niggle of teeth, he sighed; he felt the cool air start to grace his bare chest as House continued to unbutton his shirt, his speed increasing as he moved down his body.

_“Wilson,”_ he sighed aimlessly into his jaw, pressing kisses along it that accelerated in pressure as he went. Wilson felt his eyes close, his mouth slacken as that hot, glorious mouth continued; as House slid his hands beneath his undone shirt, skin brushing his bare shoulders as Wilson wiggled his arms to assist him in shrugging it to the floor. A demanding grunt escaped him, lips parting in readiness as House’s mouth found his again. Their proximity, the little brushes of their stomachs, drew Wilson’s attention to the very palpable swell between House’s legs. It made him freeze, just for half a moment; just as he processed that House was hard. For him. It was surreal, and intoxicating, and it was only then that it really hit him that this was happening.

This was fucking happening.

House’s hands were moving fast, unbridled against his bare torso; with a confidence Wilson lacked, his fingertips ran a teasing path up his belly, until Wilson moaned shyly and arched into him for more. House granted him it, flattening his hands against him and caressing his ribs, his flanks. He seized Wilson’s nipples between two fingers each, pinching gently until Wilson drew out of the kiss. His mouth slid open, his eyelids feeling slack and heavy like he’d slammed dope. When he met House’s gaze, he looked soft and delirious, half-smiling as his hands continued to caress Wilson’s bare chest.

Wilson took a breath before moving to place his hands on House’s belt, fingering the buckle. The wicked grin he offered him was short lived as he noticed House’s form tense; his look of wonder dampen. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Nothing,” House replied, quiet, insistent.

As his hesitance only grew more noticeable, Wilson quickly realised: his leg. His lips twitched, fingers reaching up to touch House’s face in a gesture he could only hope was reassuring. “I’ve seen it before, House.”

House closed his eyes, as if Wilson had just insulted him. “You’re not talking about my junk, are you?” He drew a breath. “It’s fine. Just take them off.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, stop being such a girl. You’re killing the mood.”

Wilson gave an exasperated smile before gingerly slipping the tip of House’s belt through the buckle. He held his gaze, and House didn’t break it; their accelerated breaths met in the small gap between them, as Wilson found the button on his jeans, wrestling it open with a giddy sort of haste. House grew a little stiff again as Wilson slipped his hands beneath the denim fabric, feeling the cotton of his briefs underneath. His hands lingered.

“I can’t get in the bath with those on,” House muttered, lacking the prickliness he’d clearly intended. “Get rid of them.”

Wilson nodded up at him, drawing a breath before sliding his thumbs beneath the elastic and doing as he was told. He slid down the remainder of House’s clothes gently, watching as he exposed the white flesh of his hips; the whisper of pubic hair - and then, his cock, thick and erect. As a longing sigh escaped him, Wilson bit his lip, glancing up at House nervously; his fond look of amusement somehow made him feel relaxed.

Still, nerves prevented him from reaching out to touch him. Instead, he focused on continuing to slide House’s jeans and briefs down his legs, stooping a little to assist himself. He was careful over his right thigh so as not to brush anything that might hurt. He fought to keep his face neutral; the sight of House’s scar, on the very few prior occasions he’d seen it, always jarred him more than he would have liked. Not because it was unsightly. Not even because it made him feel as though he was glimpsing something inherently private and guarded, like a personal journal. What pierced him was the reminder of why House considered himself so irreparably broken, why he’d long since given up even trying to fix himself; how it served as a visual representation of years of agony, of anguish. It made him want to hold House to his chest and whisper promise after promise that he’d never let anything hurt him again.

As he fought his own emotions, he felt House’s hand clench into a fist against his shoulder; heard a stifled little sound, one that seemed to speak of a million different fears. Wilson quickly straightened up. House’s amused expression had evaporated, replaced with something far more raw; something Wilson had never seen before, something he couldn’t place.

Something he could never hope to understand.

“It’s okay.” He was careful to keep his voice soft, unthreatening, but House still seemed to wince somewhat as he placed a hand on his cheek. “You’re beautiful. I love you.”

House closed his eyes, exhaling hard through slightly pursed lips. “You too,” he managed, after a long pause.

His declaration was barely audible, but Wilson couldn’t help the smile it evoked. Knowing, however, that it would do no good to linger on the topic, he kissed House’s forehead before murmuring, “you wanna carry on?”

House nodded again, before leaning forward to rest his head on Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson responded by sliding his arms around his back, pulling him close; he suddenly remembered their earlier conversation, with House’s insistence that he’d never be able to take care of Wilson the way he needed. Perhaps it was just as well; out of the two of them, Wilson reflected that he certainly wasn’t the one who needed taking care of.

Probably best to keep that thought to himself.

As House snaked his hands between them, Wilson felt a soft tug on his waist as House began to pull at the zipper on his slacks. Bracing his hands against House’s shoulders as House’s mouth ghosted against his neck again, he sighed with renewed bliss as he felt the remainder of his clothing being peeled away. House was slow, leaning down to caress his thighs as he bared them; Wilson shuffled awkwardly where he stood, allowing House to slide his hands between the gap he created, running those fingertips up the sensitive skin there. He felt his flesh blaze in the wake of his touch, his now bare cock swelling against House’s groin; straightening up, House moaned quietly into his ear, as Wilson slid an arm around his waist and drew him closer. He could feel House’s erection pressing insistently against him. His spare hand wandered aimlessly between them, brushing House’s as they each touched hips, thighs, waists; Wilson willed himself to bite the bullet and allow himself to touch House, really _touch_ him in the exact place he’d so longed to touch him for years. But something stopped him.

House’s hand stuttered above his groin, mirroring Wilson’s hesitation. In the midst of another fierce, longing kiss, he gave a sort of strangled grunt against Wilson’s lips before pulling away.

“Bath’s gonna get cold.”

“Yeah,” Wilson concurred, trying to mask the disappointment in his face as House drew his hands away. He’d completely forgotten about the fucking bath. He paused. “You need any help getting in?”

House snorted. “Fuck off.”

Wilson politely turned away, wrapping his arms around his waist with some unease, as House lowered himself into the tub. Soon, he heard an exaggerated, hedonistic groan, amidst the sounds of water splashing against porcelain.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the fucking stuff.”

Slowly, Wilson turned around. House had positioned himself against the rear edge of the narrow tub, arms spread across the sides, looking quite the picture of relaxation. Wilson was suddenly incredibly aware of his own nudity, of his very visible arousal. He felt a heat grace his cheeks as he fought the urge to cover himself.

He noticed House’s eyes roaming his form, his tongue darting out across his lip for just half a second. Then he seemed to clear his throat, as he nodded at the now very flaccid, dying bubbles. “You getting in or what?”

“Uh…” Wilson nodded, approaching the tub. “How we gonna do this?”

House pawed at the water, bending one knee. “Get between my legs. If you can’t fit, at least you’ll know it’s finally time to go on that diet.”

Well, that definitely didn’t help his self-consciousness. He glared, meaning it. Still, he did as instructed; gingerly, careful not to jostle House’s bad leg, he slipped one leg into the tub, then another, lowering himself down between House’s thighs. As the warm heat of the water enveloped him with its pleasant, artificial scents, he couldn’t help but sigh with satisfaction.

“That is pretty good,” he admitted, his legs folded against his chest as he settled before House. Despite the mild discomfort, he purposely left a gap between the top of his buttocks and House’s groin, not wanting to appear presumptive. Not after House had shut things down just now. Then again, he supposed slamming the brakes on was a good thing. It was maybe a bit too soon, after all. Perhaps even _this_ was too soon.

“What did I tell you about my bath gift, huh?” House said, with an air of triumph.

“At least half the credit for this belongs to me,” Wilson insisted, as he placed his hands beneath the water. Fuck, that was soothing.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” House replied. “You learned a new skill today. Next time, _you_ can run _me_ a bath.”

Wilson processed this, trying to fathom the best way to respond. He didn’t want to rush in with all guns out, but he was loathe to just let that go either. “So,” he said carefully, “there’s definitely gonna be a next time?”

House was silent a moment behind him. Then, “well, there has to be. Doesn’t there?”

“What does that mean?”

House tsk-ed quietly, before leaning forward. Wilson closed his eyes as he felt those bare arms wrap around his chest, his ass sliding against the bathtub floor as House drew him in. He gulped as he felt that incessant, still very much present erection pressed against the small of his back.

“Shut up,” House murmured, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Baths are not for talking.”

In the silence that followed, Wilson turned his head; the angle was awkward, but he had enough leverage to meet House's eyes. They were still slightly glazed over; still speaking of an urgent, apprehensive kind of want.

"What are we afraid of?" Wilson asked carefully.

House's eyes roamed his face, as if searching for something. "I don't know."

This time, House's kiss was sudden and furious. The angle strained Wilson’s neck even harder, the little ligaments smarting, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care, when all he could do was moan into the assault on his mouth; when House’s hands unclasped around his middle and immediately began to explore his body again, caressing his belly, his flanks. He allowed House to reach up and hold his chin with one hand, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he returned the kiss with ravenous fervour. With his other hand, House continued to roam Wilson’s torso, this time lacking his earlier shyness entirely; as his fingers brushed the sensitive spot where his abdomen met his groin, Wilson arched up against him with a gasp.

It forced his eyes open. He was greeted with House’s blown pupils, his slightly slack lips. It was breathtaking.

“Touch me,” he couldn't restrain himself from whispering. “Please, House.”

House's hand slipped lower, teasingly fucking lower; then drew back. “You sure?”

“Who’s being a girl now?”

As Wilson twisted his head at an unnatural angle to press his mouth against House's neck, his irritated laugh was stifled as a moan caught in his throat. Feeling his cock continuing to press into his back, Wilson experimentally shifted his hips to graze the small of his back against House’s groin; when he whimpered, Wilson’s stomach jumped with something between arousal and shock. That was a whimper, right? Certainly sounded like one. And it definitely wasn’t a sound he ever expected to come out of House.

It only heightened his desperation for touch.

“Please,” he whispered again, trailing his lips wetly across House’s throat. He was uninhibited, freed by his longing. "I need you _now_."

“Alright,” House tried to snap, but it emerged as a breathy groan. “Settle down.”

Before Wilson's foggy mind could even begin to fathom a retort, House’s hand slipped down beneath the water. As his fingertips snaked between his legs, blindly brushing his balls, Wilson jerked his hips with a keening whine, seeking more. House, either taking pity on him or helpless to his own need, finally took his rigid, aching cock into his hand. Wilson felt his mouth slacken open against House’s neck, his shuddering moan trapped in the moist skin there. “Fuck,” he murmured, “oh, _God._”

“You’re easy to please.” House nipped playfully at his eyebrow - presumably the only part of his face his mouth could comfortably reach in their current position - before tightening his grip and granting a few giddying strokes. “I haven’t even started yet.”

“_House_,” Wilson keened helplessly, as House continued to slowly fist his cock. His ministrations sent little sparks of heat dancing up his nerve endings, as his head lolled back against House’s shoulder; he parted his thighs as far as he possibly could in the narrow tub, inviting, driven by abandon. When House's mouth quickly found his again, his heightened breaths rasping into his throat, Wilson allowed himself to dissolve into the kiss.

House seemingly grew in confidence. As he quickened his pace, Wilson grabbed for his wrist to urge him on. House snickered, but there was no malice in it. "How's that?" he murmured against his lips.

All Wilson managed was a helpless nod, the rising need to touch House becoming overwhelming. He made an attempt to slide forward where he sat, as that furious, exhilarating kiss continued; he aimed to create a gap in which he could slide his hand between their bodies and find House's length, just to grant him even a little of the pleasure House was giving him. All he achieved was an awkward sort of wiggle, a few ripples in the bathwater. He grunted in frustration at his lack of success. The tub was just too small.

House jerked out of the kiss. “What you doing?” he murmured.

“Want to touch you,” Wilson sighed, closing his eyes with a strangled moan as House increased his pace further still. “Can’t reach…”

“‘S okay.” The arm around his waist tightened “I got it.”

House's rhythm didn't fail for even a moment as he began to roll his hips into Wilson’s spine. Wilson shivered at the sensation of House’s trapped erection moving against him, his movements mirroring his touch in almost perfect synchronicity. Wilson tilted his head back against House's shoulder, watching his face; revelling in the throaty, moaning sigh he gave as his eyes fell closed. Wilson's intrigue gave way to fascination as his teeth sank into his quivering lower lip. Even in the throes of pleasure, where people usually made ugly faces and stupid noises, House was stunning. 

“Good?” Wilson asked quietly.

House responded with an incoherent affirmative murmur, a sound that nudged Wilson into a near frenzy. Giving only a brief, uninterested thought to the water sloshing out of the tub and soaking his bathroom floor, he awkwardly began to move his own hips where he sat, trying to match House’s movements. It seemed to be working; House gave that soft, startling little whimper again, his blunt fingertips clawing at Wilson’s flank. He was beginning to falter a little as his own pleasure took over, but he more than made up for it by smothering Wilson’s neck in hard, unrestrained kisses. As Wilson's skin burned electric beneath House’s lips, beneath the little stabs of teeth and tongue he appeared unable to resist punctuating his kisses with, he couldn't help but open his mouth wide as he craned his arm upwards, reaching for the back of House’s neck. He needed him closer, nearer, as that exquisite white heat built up inside of him.

“God,” Wilson murmured again, moving faster. When his hips jerked back, he got to feel House’s cock moving against him; when they moved forward, he was able to continue his increasingly jagged thrusts up into his hand. The closeness, the touch, the rhythm, so perfect, leaving him delirious with ecstasy. He knew he wasn’t likely to last much longer like this.

House’s hand had found his cheek, his mouth still buried in his neck. “You’re gorgeous, fuck,” he mumbled. His babbled words, the hot ghost of his tattered breath, only served to push Wilson closer to the edge. “So fucking gorgeous… God, I love you…”

The gravelly declaration sent Wilson spiralling. “Love you too,” he gasped in return, as that hand on his cock moved harder, faster. House's thumb began to graze his head with every fast, even stroke, hurtling him into incoherence. “So… God, House… gonna… I can’t...”

“Yeah, yes.” A brush of lips in his hair, a deep sigh. “Cum for me.” Wilson thrust twice into his hand before halting, his spine arching towards the ceiling as his thighs went rigid. “Gorgeous,” House murmured again, as Wilson dug his fingers into his shoulder helplessly. “So…”

Wilon's mouth jammed into House’s neck as he spilled a series of broken moans into his skin, overcome with the explosion of orgasm. It was violent and unrelenting, it felt like it would never stop; it ripped through every nerve ending in his body, every wave harder and more intense than the last.

Then as House began to rock more intently against him, he trailed off, his words giving way to a series of incoherent, breathless groans. As he held Wilson still and chased his own release, Wilson let himself crumble against his body, lying in a trembling, spent mess in House’s arms. Coherent thought was scrambled, out of reach; but amidst it, Wilson was vaguely aware of wishing that House had stalked him years ago.

**

The first beads of daybreak were announcing themselves through the curtains. Usually, when Wilson was still awake at this time, he’d have to cover his head with the blankets to shut it out. It wasn't even the light he hid from; it was the panic of being awake to experience the day being ushered in.

Tonight - or indeed, this morning - he couldn’t care less.

House was lying on his front, his head turned to the side on the pillow. Wilson edged closer across the mattress, listening to those soft, even breaths as he slept. The breaths that had given him solace for so many weeks. The breaths he had long assumed that he would never identify the source of. The breaths that now, he hoped he’d get to listen to every day. Every morning, when House inevitably slept in. Every night, Wilson envisioned himself drifting off to their calming murmur as though they were a lullaby. Realistically, they’d probably annoy him after a while. 90% of what House did was fucking annoying.

Wilson adored him for it.

Sure, he still had questions. Many of them. _How long have you known you were gay? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Do you really think I’m getting fat? Will you come see _Cats_ with me when it comes to town?_

House wouldn’t be ready for the former two discussions for months, he’d tell Wilson he was fat no matter what he thought just to piss him off, and Wilson knew already that the answer to the final question would earn him an hour’s mocking and a resounding no. But it could wait; right now, lying in bed with a sleeping House like this was all he needed. All he’d ever needed, and all he ever would need again.

Wilson released a contented breath as he gently slid his arm around House and closed his eyes. Yes, he was thinking too much. Yes, it was making sleep elusive. But he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Not when his head was finally a pleasant place to be.


End file.
